


Winter Song

by stellaseas



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canon Compliant, Comfort, Developing Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:09:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24500590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellaseas/pseuds/stellaseas
Summary: After months of successfully eluding detection, the Winter Soldier returns to Brooklyn, NY searching for answers pertaining to his true identity. While much has changed in the city, old memories are stirred when he stumbles across a bakery that has been standing since 1925. There he meets one of the owners and gains a friend. Eventual Bucky/OFC.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 16





	1. Adrift

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, I fell victim to another wonderfully realized Marvel MCU character. And while we can all agree that, after the events of Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Bucky Barnes has abandoned the role of antagonist, I think it’s fair to say he still has a long way to go before he can ever return to the person he was before. This takes place a few months after the events of CA:WS and before CA:CW
> 
> This story was originally (and is still) published on the other fanfiction website, but I was encouraged by friends to post here too. I will update chapters every couple days whenever possible.

_**November.** _

The room would never work. It was cheap, yes. Its location was ideal. Safe. Close to two of the busier subway stations. And the owner didn't give two shits about his tenants as long as they paid him on time. Payments were dropped through a slot on his door on a monthly basis. No electronic accounts needed. It was a building infested with vagabonds and others looking for a place to stay hidden. None of his neighbors would be friendly or curious.

But this room, it felt too...familiar. Its commonality exposed fractured memories he thought were buried too deep to find. Memories of old safe houses and hideaways; prompting flashes of the life he was trying to run from instead of the one he was seeking to understand.

The late autumn air, still fresh from rain filled the room with a dank, musty smell that coated the wooden floor and peeling painted walls. He could even taste it on his tongue. The ceiling was low enough that when he stood, he could sense its tatty stucco surface just above him. Looming down on him. The floors were old and half-rotted. Even the slightest applied pressure elicited a screeching creak. There was only one window and it was much too narrow for his stocky frame to fit through if the need presented itself. If, or more likely when, an escape was necessary, he would have to plow through it and that would be a dead giveaway to the right pair of investigative eyes. A single light hung from the ceiling, its bulb more orange that white. When one of the trains went rushing past outside, it would sway and flicker like a dying flame. A slow ping of dripping water could be heard from every corner of the room, but he had yet to find the source of its constant racket.

Dismissing any lingering concerns, he sat on the edge of the bed that pulled out from the wall. He could feel and hear the springs shudder under his weight. A labored sigh left his cracked lips. Already, the room felt more like a cell than a shelter. Even though he could still feel the key resting in his pocket, the lock on the door across the room felt outside of his control. He swallowed, a harrowing sense of dread sparking in the back of his mind.

_Did_ he have control? Was this a dream? An illusion maybe? Or another sensation imprinted on his brain like so many before.? Was he really free of them? Those that had controlled him?

His chest tightened as doubt began to creep over him, constricting like a snake. No, he was certain he had successfully eluded them in Detroit. He would bet his life that his pursuers were still scouring the many northwestern boarders, gobbling up the false indicators he had left for them.

Pierce was dead. So were many of his men. But not all. Not the scientists. Not the doctor. There were always survivors. _Cut off one head…_

But they were not the only ones attempting to track him down.

_You know me._

"No." He muttered, his voice hoarse and thick with exhaustion. He ran his hand through his hair, pushing it back with the stranger's voice. But he could not shake it. The sound of it. It clung to his brain as if searching for it's rightful place, desperate to show him that it's nature was true.

_**You know me.** _

"Quiet." He growled, standing too quickly. His head spun and his aching legs buckled underneath him. He collapsed on the bed, his vision blotted black. His limbs went numb and his stomach swam like a stormy sea. He could feel his consciences beginning to slip from his mind's grasp. Another blackout seemed inevitable. They were beginning to grow more frequent. One more burden to contend with. Another reason to surrender himself. He was vulnerable without the assistance of the doctor. He had never been taught how to fight these sorts of battles. He had know way of knowing how long he had spent out in the world with a lucid mind. Well, lucid to a degree. He was far and away from all he knew. Or rather, what he had been "programmed" to know. Was that the word for it? Programmed? Maybe not. It would have to do. He couldn't decide on a better one. And that was a detail that could wait.

He rolled onto his back, his bloodshot eyes trained on the ceiling. Blinking, he tried in vain to will his vision clearer.

_Your work is a gift to mankind._

He groaned again, ramming his flesh and bone hand into his skull. What he would give to quiet the voices. They were no help to him now. Only temptations, distractions, nightmares…

In times like these, he longed for the uniformity of his past life. The one he could still remember with succinct clarity. The one that had not been erased. Or stolen. Stolen? Yes. Stolen.

In that life, he had no memory of this. Being lost. Without direction. Without a clear sense of purpose. His reality had been so simple. Two shades. Black and white. Allies and enemies. One mission after another. There had always been a plan. An extraction. A safe house. A support team was always waiting for him to do his part. When the mission was completed, they were there mop up whatever mess had been left behind and cover his tracks. The world's greatest strategists were called in to assess his missions and assure the best method was deployed. No variable was out of place.

Then it was on to the next mission. That, or there was the ice. And sleep. Dreamless and painless.

He had nothing now. No orders. No plans. Only the money he had relieved from passing strangers and unprotected homes. Stashes he had been made aware of during his days as Pierce's asset.

There was only one thing he possessed that was fully his own. Desire. White hot and burning at all hours. A desire to understand who he was. To sift through the lies until he came across what was true.

Which is why he had come here. Coordinates 40.6928° N, 73.9903° W. Brooklyn, New York, United States of America. 

This city was his home. Or it had been. At one time. Whether or not he would be able to track down any information or access any lost memories, he couldn't be sure. But as of now, it was the only lead he had managed to get his hand on.

He lifted himself up, his eyes looking for the table that sat under the window. His sight blurred and he held a hand to his head, waiting for the room to quit spinning. There on the table stood his only key to a life he had yet to confirm even existed at all: a file he had stolen several months ago. Though it felt like it was so long ago. He couldn't register the date anymore. It wasn't important after all.

He knew every word of the file now, having poured over it almost one hundred times. Along with four pages of army documentation dated 1945, there were three pictures and two names. The first picture was the largest. It was a young man. If he turned his head a certain way, shaved his beard and found some miracle cure for the circles that lived under his eyes, it could have been a mirror image.

This was James Buchanan Barnes. This was him. Supposedly. All he had was the word of one man. The man in the smaller picture. The man on the bridge. Given name: Steven Rogers. Alias: Captain America.

His...friend.

He cursed under his breath, let the pages slip from his fingers and hobbled back to the bed. His head felt heavy, as if it would sink through the mattress and fall through the floorboards. He closed his eyes and prayed for sleep. It was all he could do. For now. Trying to fend off the voices again, he began muttering all he knew, filing through the paltry bits of information it had taken him almost eight months to procure. Still, he could hear the voices, like whispers now. Flitting around his head. Ghosts eager to haunt him, waiting to strike. All this talk was helping, but only just. What he needed was sleep. And he needed it now.

He waited, trying to slow his shallow breaths, hoping that soon the noise would cease and his world would fade to black.

* * *

Fortune for once, was on his side. He slept for some time and not once was he plagued by the voices or images that still meant nothing to him.

When he woke, he had no memory of falling asleep and no concept of the time. During his sleep he had rolled onto his stomach. His prosthetic was resting under his head and when he shifted his weight and pulled his neck up, a sharp pain radiated through his shoulders. He cried out, his whole body as stiff as the steel that made up his arm. 

Rolling back onto his side, he gazed towards the window. Faint light poured in from the cracks between the blinds. But was it the light of dawn or dusk? What time had it been when he first fell asleep? What day had it been?

_Don't know._ He thought, rubbing at his eyes. _Can't remember._

He sat up, his shoe-clad feet hitting the floor hard. His hands gripped the edge of the mattress as he tried to gather his wits about him again.

Whatever the day, whatever the time, he knew he had slept too long. It would take time, far too much time, for him to feel truly awake again. He stood up, realizing that he was hungry. And this time, it wasn't a hunger he could ignore. He needed sustenance. Remembering that he had a watch in the pocket of his jacket, he plunged his hand inside at pulled it out.

05.45 a.m.

_Good._ It was morning. The streets would be close to vacant. He could get what he needed and then continue his search for a more fitting shelter.

Zipping his jacket up to the collar, he grabbed the clip of cash he had slid under the mattress and stuffed it in his back pocket. He pulled a baseball cap from the table and fitted it on his head.

Now that he had all of his possessions on his person, he left the apartment; not bothering to lock it behind him.

* * *

Thank you for reading! 


	2. Coffee, Black

The Winter Soldier had found his way to Brooklyn at the most apt of times. Though the solstice was still many weeks away, the final season of the year had already begun it's languid descent onto the historic borough. The signs were everywhere. The warmth and color of autumn was beginning to fade. The city was turning bleaker with each passing day. Chilly bursts of wind nipped at pedestrians, irritating any bare skin and provoking city dwellers to start searching for their winter clothes. The fragrances of pumpkin and cinnamon had begun to grow stale. To most, the thought of another gray day unaccompanied by tender wisps of snow was too tedious to fathom. Many longed for the smells and sights the holiday season would soon bring. While others wished to bypass the ice and snow altogether and embrace the flowering spring.

The morning light, or what little could be seen of it, had yet to creep through the maze of high rises and brownstones, leaving the streets dark even as the sun pushed higher into the sky. The night was gone, but it's frigid hold still lingered in the dewy air. Thin grey clouds coated the skyline, teasing the possibility of rain.

He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his navy jacket and surveyed the street outside his door. He felt no worry of discovery here. He had called upon his decades of training and preparation for situations such as this and any hint of a trail left behind had been expertly wiped out. For a few days, or if luck was really on his side, possibly a few weeks, he would be safe. He was sure of it. 

The block he had chosen was one of the older ones. He could see it's age written in cracks that ran like dried out riverbeds through the brick and brownstone, in the chipped layers of paint and the intricate accents. Most of the buildings that lined the blocked were still in use, but some had been boarded up and were now covered in dust, graffiti and worn legal notices.

Still, his instinct commanded him to search the streets, his eyes always watching for suspicious persons or signs they may have left behind. There were very few people up at such an hour. A taxi slunk by, looking for early morning tickets. A spindly man was speaking loudly on a cell phone, his hand wrapped tightly around a bulky briefcase. Two women scurried past, their eyes focused on the ground, pressed together for warmth.

He stepped off the stoop. After looking down the street, then up, he decided to head north. He walked on for ten minutes. Slowly. Taking his time. Surveying the streets and signs and flickering lights, committing it all to memory. There wasn't much to see in the night and he couldn't remember the last time he had dared to enter into the bustling world without it's protective cover of shadow and flickering neon. Even after several months, he was not used to this. Walking. Out and about. Aimlessly, really. His purpose now, in this moment, was just to find food. There was no target to search for. No timeframe to abide by. No monitors watching from a safe distance, there to make sure he hit his marks. His purpose was simple now.

Mundane.

Was this freedom? Or, was this isolation? Or were they possibly one in the same?

It was that, among other things, he was determined to understand. The more he traveled, the more intense his desires became. For once, his life was not being dictated by the motives of others. Somewhere deep within him, hope still existed. Locked away. It would be long before he was able to peel back enough layers to find it. But still, it lived within him, sparked to new life by the man on the bridge. And by some insane stroke of fate it still clung to life, faithfully guiding him like a shivering candlelight in the eye of a hurricane.

He stopped walking, his stomach quaking strongly enough to jar him from his thoughts.

_I need...something_. He thought, remembering why he had stepped out in the first place. His needs had always been taken care of. His wants on the other hand...

He adjusted the cap on his head, cleared his throat, rubbed more sleep from his eyes, yawned, anything to erase his current train of thought. He had been down that road before and it only led him on another lightless path.

He looked around and realized he could not recall how it was he had come to this street several dozen blocks away from where he had started. But he was used to these gaps in his short term memory. By now, they had become nothing more than a passing inconvenience.

He looked up, eyes searching for street signs or other obvious markers. 

Pierrepont Street.

The discomfort in his gut was quickly becoming something more painful. He swallowed, his throat as dry as his cracked lips. He scanned the buildings across from him, hoping to see something that would put an end to his hunger.

There was a dry cleaners, closed. An ATM sat in it's own little alcove between a pharmacy and a hardware store. A mexican diner, closed. A kitschy little shop, closed.

_Dammit_. He cursed, his impatience getting the better of his steely composure. _Am I too early? There should be something-_

He peered around the corner to the next block, his eyes scanning each and every sign within his sight. And then, something caught his eye.

Before he could identify exactly what had trapped his attention, his vision was flooded by a memory. He could hear a melodic voice ringing like an echoing bell, but it was too far away for him to identify any words. The images flashed too quickly in his head and he was unable to make any recognitions.

He stepped around the corner, searching frantically for the image that had triggered something from one of his pasts.

His eyes darted back and forth. As the memory began to fade, panic ballooned in his chest and he gulped in air. Just as suddenly as the memory had come, it was gone. With his brain no longer distracted, clarity returned, and he realized that the image had no been in front of him, it had been above him.

He stepped backwards and shifted his gaze upwards. Squinting in the gray morning light, he read the words etched onto a wooden sign that swayed on an iron rod.

_**Cole's Corner Bakery est. 1925** _

Aside from paint, the sign had not changed since the year it was hung. The type was reminiscent of a more glamorous time, the polar opposite of minimal. True, the sign looked rather antiquated when compared to the others that lined the street. The lettering was intricate and looking to be hand painted. The words were a bright royal blue, the background a pristine white. It had survived war and repair a thousand times over. But…

_Why do I- How do I know this?_

As he stared at it, watching it rock sluggishly backwards and forwards, the memory returned again. Engulfing him this time. Like oil into water, images slipped seamlessly into his head, painting over the reality that surrounded him until none of it remained. 

The empty morning streets filled with cars that rattled and banged much louder than modern models. The sidewalk was flooded with people dressed to the nines in tailored coats. He could hear the clacking of boots and heels against the slick ground below. Smoke filled the air and the amber light of a much later time soon followed. He felt his world tilt as his vision was suddenly lowered. He looked down to his feet and realized he was much lower to the ground than normal. In a puddle, he caught sight of his reflection. At least, he thought it was his reflection. The face that looked back up at him was rounder...and younger. Much younger. Finally, the voice had returned and this time he could hear every word.

_**Becky, it's your brother's turn to choose.**_ Even though she spoke loudly to ensure her voice would cut through the busy street sounds, it came upon him like a whisper. Gentle and familiar.

_**Is not! Jamie picked last!**_ He could recognize the other voice as well, but it's higher, hoarse pitch stirred something other than welcome in his mind.

_**You know very well, you picked last time.** _

_**But he always picks the same thing.** _

_**James, dear?**_ He could see a hand reaching for his. The nails were nicely trimmed and painted and there was a small ring on the fourth finger. _**Where would you like to go?**_

He expected there to be more, but it all faded too quickly. The smell in the air. The taste of it. The sounds roaring in the street. It all disappeared. The stillness of the morning returned and he was left with nothing but the smoke of his own breath as it hit the cold air. Reality set in like a great weight and he was left with nothing but those last words.

_**Where would you like to go?** _

He clung to the sound of it. Recalling it again and again. But he couldn't place it just yet. He could see no face to accompany it, either. Just the gentle swishing of a forest green skirt tucked under a tartan coat and a hand at his eye level, reaching for his own.

He turned to his right, looking in to the window of the building. As the sign had said, it was bakery. Inside he could see bodies moving around. It was open. 

_**Where would you like to go?** _

He stepped inside.

A bell hanging above the door, it tinkered as he entered. A chorus of "Good Mornings" followed. He stood just inside the door, surveying every inch hoping to jog another memory. Even though the hour was early, a line about half a dozen people had already formed at the register. As people waited, they gazed at a large glass case that was filled with pastries. On the wall behind it, a rack of breads and bagels stretched almost to the ceiling. The rest of the wall had been painted black and a menu had been transcribed onto it in various shades of blue and white chalk. A wooden bar had been placed across the window to the left of the door. Three men sat there, drinking coffees from ceramic cups and talking business. On the wall opposite the register, pictures of varying sizes were hung in frames of every shape and size. 

Not wanting to attract unwanted attention, he shuffled to the back of the line. He returned his hands to his pockets. His real one fished around for the money stored there, trying to estimate what exactly he could get. His eyes fell to the right, to the lines of food that looked to still be steaming behind the glass. He swallowed, trying to contain his own salivating. His stomach felt as though it would cave in on itself and then shrivel into nothing if he didn't satiate it's grumbling soon.

He couldn't remember the last time he had eaten freshly made food. Since his severance with HYDRA he had been on the run gulping down stale foods from forgotten safe houses and buying anything else he needed from convenience stores. Finally, his turn came and he approached the counter. He realized too late, that he had been so focused on the pangs in his stomach, that he hadn't actually read the offerings on the menu.

It seemed too late now. His brain was moving at a sluggish pace and the woman behind the counter had already greeted him.

"Good morning," she said, smiling.

He blinked, unprepared for the memory to return at such an inconvenient time. However, just as it had outside, the memory saturated his vision, replacing all that was in front of him with a vision of another time. 

He could hear the mystery woman's voice again.

_**Tell Mrs. Cole what you want, dear**_.

His line of sight had was barely able to see over the counter now. He looked up at the woman who stood behind the corner and opened his mouth to speak.

"Sir?"

The memory vanished.

It was uncanny, the similarity in appearance between the woman that stood behind the counter in his memory and the one standing before him now waiting for his order. She was in her late twenties, he guessed. Her eyes were blue and bright, matching the color of the chalk on the menu behind her. Just like the woman from his memory, she was a brunette, with dark, thick hair. Hers, however, was not as curled and set away from her face. Her bangs were cut straight and fell over her brow. She had gathered the rest of her hair into a bun at the top of her head. A thick blue band of fabric was wound around her head and tied in a knot just off center. Her lips were painted a soft red and her cheeks were smattered with freckles. 

"What can I get you?" she asked again, craning her neck slightly to make eye contact with him.

"Coffee," he sputtered. "Black."

The young woman nodded, grabbing a cup from one of the stacks to her right.

"Anything to eat with that?" she asked.

"Uh," He shook his head, trying to disperse the clouds in his head. Fractions of the the memory were mixing with reality, making him disoriented.

The woman behind the counter was a professional, however. She was used to all types of customers. 

"Rough morning?" she asked, brow furrowing sympathetically,

"Yeah," he said, rubbing his temple. 

She leaned backwards, looking into the kitchen. Turning back to him, she smiled again.

"We just pulled out the ham & cheese croissants," she said. "They're nice and warm."

He looked at her, trying to get the gears in his head unstuck.

"Okay."

"Great." she said. With her free hand, she pressed four buttons on the register and then reached for a pen that was tucked behind her ear.

"Can I get your name?" she asked.

"I-uh"

The Winter Soldier. It was the only name he knew. But it was nothing more than code. A whisper meant to ignite fear into those that stood against the will of Hydra. He couldn't say that. But what could he say? He tried to remember the name on the passport he had stolen. He could picture it in his head, but the letters blurred together. In times like these, and they were few and far between, his training told him to spout an alias. But he couldn't think of a single one. 

_What do I say? A name. Any name. Why can't I think of a name?_

As if understanding, the younger, more bracing voice from before erupted in his head.

_**Jamie! Hurry up, it's my turn!** _

"Jamie?" He repeated aloud.

"Did you say Jamie?" The woman asked, leaning closer to hear him.

"Ah-Yeah." He stuttered, the name still echoing in his ears.

"Alright," She said, scribbling on the cup. "That'll be $5.75."

He handed over the money and moved away with a grunt, his head still ringing with the sound of the name.

* * *

Emily Cole focused on correctly distributing the change the man had given her until she was sure he had shuffled away. She leaned over the register, curiously watching him as he made his way to the other counter. At first glance, she wondered if he was homeless. It would account for the more than scruffy beard and dodgy eyes, but his clothes weren't dirty and he didn't look like slight enough. In fact, he was rather well built.

"Chloe?" She called to the girl on her left, who was restocking cutlery. "Can you ring up the next one?"

"Sure, Emily." Chloe said.

"Thanks."

Tucking the pen behind her ear, Emily set the cup down on the counter and grabbed one of the slip napkins before stepping into the kitchen.

She smiled at the man who was setting the next batch of croissants in the oven.

"What do you think, Robby?" She asked approaching the table where the fresh batch lay steaming. She rested her hands on her hips and surveyed the sheet.

"Which one's your best?"

Robby stepped up behind her. "Always the center, Emily."

Emily smiled, her eyes glowing. "Mmm, looks like it's the biggest, too. Thanks."

Using the napkin, she swiped it up. "I'll set out the others in a sec."

"Got a tough customer on your hands?" Robby asked.

"No," Emily said, thoughtfully. "It's a new one this time. What was it my mom always said? You've got to woo them right."

"Yes, ma'am." Robby chuckled, returning to his work.

Emily stepped out of the kitchen and slipped the croissant into a bag. She walked past Chloe and reached for the cup she had left behind, intent on passing it off to their barista.

She stopped however. Chewing on her lip, she rose up on her toes so that she could see over the espresso machine and look at the man again. _He looks like hell._ She thought, wondering if he would collapse onto the floor from lack of sleep. _If the dark circles hung any lower they'd droop right off his face._

Tossing the cup into the trash can under the unopened register, she grabbed the largest size they had.

"Just coffee, please. The strongest." She said, handing it to Russell. "No room."

Russell nodded and filled it up before handing it back to her.

"Jamie!" She called, stepping towards the pick-up counter.

At first, she believed she would have to call him again, but he approached right away.

"Have a good day," She said, as he took his order from her.

He said nothing, simply nodded and turned to leave.

As the door opened and the bell tinkered again, she called, "See you next time, Jamie!"

He stopped, turned and looked at her. She smiled and waved, even though she could already feel the pink heating up her cheeks.

His mouth fell open, but he just turned away again and left.

* * *

Even though he had spent under seven minutes inside the bakery, his body had already acclimated to the warmth. Stepping outside felt akin to diving into an icy lake, but it was a sensation he was no stranger to.

As he walked, he lifted the cup to his lips and drank heavily. The liquid burned his tongue, coating it in an earthy bitterness that left his taste buds completely numb. The coffee slipped down his throat and he could feel the heat plunging deeper into his system. Slowly, it began to warm him from his center. He drank until he could feel the heat buzzing in his fingertips, almost emptying the cup right then and there. The coffee settled uneasily in his belly. It wasn't enough to satisfy. He could practically feel it swishing about as he hurried down the street. At first he thought he would be sick, but the wave of nausea was only temporary.

Looking to his other hand, he could feel the heat of the croissant seeping through the tissuey bag; the flesh of his palm soaked it in. He licked his lips. His stomach was quivering in anticipation. He ducked into the alcove where the ATM machine sat lonely and unused. Setting his coffee down, he tilted the bag and let the croissant fall into his hand. He lifted it to his mouth, but stopped just short of biting down.

Something caught his eye. A red light, the size of a pinpoint, steadily blinking just above him.

A security camera. He could see his own mutated reflection in it's glossy spherical lens. Another blank, black eye watching him, tracking him, waiting to spill it's secrets to his hunters. He growled, cursing under his breath. Dropping the food back into the bag, he picked up his coffee and hurried away.

_Idiot._ He thought. _Letting your guard down. There's got to be somewhere I could-_

He ducked into an alley way, his eyes trained on the gray sky above. Recalling his training, he bit down on the edge of the bag, holding it between his teeth. He moved the coffee cup into his right hand and, using his strength and mechanical arm alone, hoisted himself up the fire escape above him. There was safety in height. The higher he climbed, the less likely he was to find enemies above. He could watch for any potential threat below, without worrying about the unhappy surprise of an arial assault. The wind was stronger on the roof. He set his sustenance down on the brick wall that lined it, and used both hands to better affix his cap to his head.

Finally, he could consume his food. Sitting on the edge, he pulled the croissant out of the bag and opened his mouth again. He was so famished, he considered swallowing it whole. The thought of such a large amount of food sliding down his throat seemed like near bliss, but he knew he would be better served taking his time. He bit into it, letting loose small tendrils of steam. The outside had cooled some, but the center was still piping hot. Gooey strings of salty cheese and thin slices of meat tasted covered his tongue. It was unlike anything he had eaten in months. Years even. He chewed for almost a minute, letting the contrasting flavors mix together. Finally, he swallowed it slowly, then exhaled. Plumes of white smoke erupted from his mouth, carrying with them the fragrance of smoked meat and butter. His eyes rolled shut and he bit off a much larger piece, leaving just one last bite.

After that initial mouthful had disappeared down his throat, his mind was left to wander. And soon he found himself mulling over more troubling thoughts. The security camera. How could he have been so foolish? He had only stood under it's eye for several fleeting seconds, but even one second could amount to trouble. HYDRA was equipped with decades worth of SHIELD technology. The sort of technology he himself had used during many a mission. Face tracing, fingerprint tracking, DNA analyzers, a Tac Team that could retrieve a single soul from a crowd of thousands in mere minutes.

_I can't keep going on like this. Hiding._

He needed to do more than simply shelter in the shadows. That was exactly what would be expected of him. There would be those within HYDRA, and other intelligence groups for that matter, that would underestimate his understanding of this world. And while most still believed him to be nothing more than a myth, there were those that knew better. Those that knew him in ways even he did not understand. Even so, it was possible that moving around in the open more often would serve him better. And all strategizing aside...

He needed- _No_. He wanted it now. A life on the outside. This was more than a necessity. Necessity couldn't fuel a fire like this. He wanted to do more than survive.

And if he was to do that, he needed more than money and a roof over his head. He needed identity.

Finding the bakery had been a lucky happenstance. He would need to delve deeper into the past of this man. James Barnes. He was not yet ready to adapt this other life, another nature. Whatever the hell it was.

So for now...for the time being. He would be…

Who would he be?

He reached for the coffee again, mulling over his options. He looked down at the cup, turning it over in his hand. On the back side, he realized something had been written down. 

_**Upgrade on the house!** _

_**Jamie** _

He said the name aloud. This time, without question.

For now, he would be Jamie.

* * *

He returned to Pierrepont Street the next day. This time he came in the early afternoon, hoping to pull another thread of memory from the Cole Bakery. He had explored different sections of the neighborhood, walking slowly and analyzing every last inch of brick and glass and concrete, but nothing had come of it. Too much had changed. It seemed the bakery was the only business on the block that had survived decades of change.

He had only intended to walk past and hope for another flash, but by that time the storm clouds above had begun to release hard, cold rain. He didn't mind the horrid weather, it was nothing he hadn't lived through before. But the thought of another hot coffee wasn't something he could not easily pass up. And, once again, his stomach was grumbling for something to satisfy it. At first, he could not locate the woman who had helped him the day before. But after placing his order, she came bursting from the kitchen, balancing three large baskets of bread in her arms. Not wanting to draw unwanted attention, he simply took his food and drink, and exited.

_Now what?_

He couldn't escape to the roof again, the storm had only grown more forceful during his short time inside. He had been ill in Prague some months past, and his near incomplete lack of knowledge regarding his own health was almost enough to kill him. He had learned from that experience that he couldn't afford to get sick again. Looking to his left, he saw three circular, iron tables set up under the navy awning just outside the store. Setting his food and coffee down on the one closest to him, he pulled the chair out and took a seat.

He drank his coffee slowly, soon becoming practically hypnotized by the sound of steady, pattering rain. It's loud roar was enough to keep his mind clear and put him at ease. The sidewalks were unusually bare, save for an unlucky soul scampering by every now and then.

When his cup was near empty, the door to the bakery opened and someone passed him by. It was the woman from the other day.

She carried in her arm a large book and in her hand a steaming mug. She settled into the chair at the table farthest from him, opened the book, took the mug into her hand and began reading. He watched her closely, but carefully. He wanted desperately to jog another memory, but he didn't want her to catch him staring. He was no master of social graces, but he knew well enough that people didn't like to be spied upon.

_Shouldn't disturb her._ He thought. But in the end, his longing for understanding won out. Social graces be damned. This was too important. This was his life.

He rose out of his chair, it's feet scraping loudly against the concrete. His artificial arm grabbed at the chair across from her. He pulled it out and slid into the seat before she could protest. It wasn't until he had settled that she sensed his presence.

Glancing up, she started, apparently entirely unaware of his approach.

Her eyes scanned over him. After what seemed like hours to him, she finally opened her mouth. He had hoped to hear another spirited "hello," but she said:

"Is there something wrong with the coffee?"

He looked down at the cup he was still holding in his right hand, having completely forgotten about it.

"I'm sorry," she said, plainly. "Russell's the coffee guru and today's his day off. I thought I could do it myself. He's been teaching me, but I may be worse off than I think."

The longer she spoke the faster her flustered speech became. He realized too late that she thought he had come over to complain. As she rambled, she closed her book without marking her page and shifted in her chair.

She was apologizing, that much he understood. He wanted to stop her. To correct the mistake. But he wasn't good at this. He didn't know what to say. He couldn't even think. His head was swirling with adrenaline. He realized too late it had been rude to approach her so suddenly. Without thought. When was the last time he had a conversation without holding a gun to someone's head? When was the last time someone had expected him to speak for himself? His training had taught him how to blend in, to disappear, but never to assimilate.

_This was a mistake,_ he thought. _I should just go. Find another place._

"I can have someone else remake it," She offered, entirely unaware of his growing distress.

Without waiting for an answer from him, she swiped the cup away. Pushing her own chair back, she rose out of it. The scraping sound snagged his concentration and he realized she meant to leave.

Panicking, he reached out and grabbed her wrist with his real hand.

She froze and her apologetic mumblings stopped abruptly.

If she was alarmed, he thought, she masked it rather well. He could feel her pulse hammering in her wrist. _Don't make her uncomfortable... **more** uncomfortable. Say something. Speak!_

"No, uh." he stuttered.

"Yes?" she said, her register ratcheting higher.

"It's good." He said lamely, releasing her wrist. "I wanted to tell you."

"Oh." She blushed and slowly lowered herself back into her seat.

"Thanks," She said, relaxing somewhat. Sheepishly, she place the cup back on the table and pushed it over to him. "Sorry, I just-"

She cleared her throat, entirely unsure of what she meant to say.

As silence swelled again, the sound of the rain became louder and louder, pounding the awning above them and dribbling down on to the sidewalk.

He knew he would have to say something else. But what? Racking his brain, he could think of nothing appropriate. The only thing on his mind was his connection to this place. So. Maybe...

"I used to-" he started, but stopped just as suddenly. _Can't say that._ What could he say?

"Sorry?" she said, still nervously polite.

_Lie. If you've been taught anything. It's how to lie._

He cleared his throat and straightened his posture.

"I used to hear stories about this place." He said. "My...grandfather lived upstairs, he always talked about the Cole Bakery."

"Oh!" She said, resting her elbows on her book. "Yeah, my great-great aunt and uncle opened it. We'll be coming up on our 90th Anniversary next year."

She looked to her left, peering in the window.

"That's Rose over there," she explained, pointing to a tall, curly haired woman looking through a book of receipts behind the counter. "She was named after her."

He nodded. Even though this information wasn't exactly pertinent to him, he found he liked listening to her talk. Her voice was clear as a bell and he could hear echoes of the woman from the memory. It was a welcome change from months of silence and scratchy whispers from dreams and nightmares he didn't understand.

"Rose is my cousin," she continued. "It's a family business through and through. She's manager and her mother is owner. Her brother Russell, well I already said it, didn't I? He's the coffee guy. And the bread guy, I guess."

She turned back to him, resting her chin in her right hand.

"My brother, Eli, works here, too. Well, not so much here, he manages the money and the business side of things with my uncle John. The rest of us are hopeless with that stuff. Then there's Danny...He just graduated. For now, he handles our deliveries…but he wants to be an EMT so we won't have him for much longer I imagine. And then Jess, er Jessica, she's the baby. She's still in school, but she's started running a blog for us and she keeps track of twitter and all that social stuff."

She grinned.

"And you?" He asked, hoping she would continue.

"Hmmm? Oh me?!" She said. "I do a little of everything. Rose likes me up front cause she says I'm best with the customers. They all say I got Aunt Rosie's baking gene. I'm in charge of the recipes and such, like my mother was before me. I train the new hires and I'll do the baking for the important clients. It's funny when I was young, I thought I'd want nothing to do with all this, but then my mother started teaching me how to bake and-"

She stopped, taking in his blank expression. 

"And, I am talking too much." She said bashfully, reaching for her mug. "Sorry, I do that sometimes."

He shook his head.

"No," He said, lamely. "It's okay."

She smiled, looking back into the store window again. Both her reflection and his was visible in the glass. She was glad to see he looked somewhat better than he had the day before. Although he needed a shave and a haircut and possibly a change of clothes. She loved getting to know her customers. She considered the regulars her friends. Some of them had been coming to the shop for decades. Others sent the shop Christmas cards and presents. But it wasn't everyday that customers sat down with her for a conversation, especially brand new ones.

_But there's something about him._ She had recognized it right away, it had simply taken her some time to realize it. He was lonely. It wasn't in his manner or his speech, at least, what little he had said to her. It was those eyes. They were despondent. Something deep and troubling was swimming behind them. And though she couldn't decide upon her reasoning, she felt the need to stay. _Maybe he needs someone to talk to._

"Are you new?" she asked. "Around here…"

He didn't answer right away.

"I'm pretty good with faces," she continued. "I don't remember seeing you come in before."

"I am," he answered. "I just moved here."

"And it's Jamie, right?' She asked, finally remembering.

"Yes, Jamie." He said. "And you're…"

"Oh! I didn't even say, did I? Sorry, my name's-"

"Emily." He finished.

She stopped, a spindly chill running up her back. "How'd you-?"

He pointed to her chest. She looked down.

"Oh yeah." she said, exhaling. Pinned to her sweater was a name tag reading: Emily 

"We just got these last month, I keep forgetting I wear it."

Before he could drum up another response, a shrill beeping began to sound.

Emily looked down at the table and reached for her phone that sat next to her book.

"Well, break's over." She said. "Back to the grind."

Standing up, she dropped her phone into the pocket of her apron and grabbed her book from the table.

"Do you want a refill?" she offered, motioning to his cup. "It's only 40 cents."

He nodded.

"Kay." she said, smiling. "I'll get that for you. One sec."

She snatched up the cup again and hurried inside.

He rose slowly out of his seat, deflated. It wasn't enough. No new memories had made themselves known to him. It was possible he was tapped out here. There were likely other places in the city he could go to. But he couldn't think where to start again.

Walking inside, he dug his hand into his pocket looking for the correct about of change.

"Jamie!"

Hearing Emily call his name, he approached the counter again.

"Here you go." She said sweetly, passing off the cup.

He nodded again, trying to keep his disappointment hidden away.

_What do I do now?_

As he left, he glanced at the cup again. Under his name, a note was scribbled.

_**See you tomorrow? :)** _

Surprised, he looked through the window. Emily was watching him and she waved when their eyes met.

Raising his own hand, he mimicked her motion. She smiled and turned back to her work.

Jamie looked at the cup again, reading it and trying to imagine her voice speaking the words.

"Tomorrow." He said aloud before taking a sip from the cup.

"See you tomorrow."

* * *

Thank you so much for reading!! I would love to hear your thoughts!


	3. Snowfall

**Born in 1916, Barnes grew up the eldest child of four. An excellent athlete who also excelled in the classroom, Barnes enlisted in the Army shortly after the attack on Pearl Harbor.**

He ran his fingers over the words on the page. The pads of each digit were rough and calloused; his keen sense of hearing could pick up the soft grating sound that rose from the page at his touch. Each letter had been carefully chosen and placed just so. They reminded him of a dutiful rank, a perfect line of men frozen at attention. The comparison aroused more voices in his head. Chilling shouts, echoing in unison, bouncing around in his head but never slowing enough for him to comprehend their meaning. 

_Enlisted after Pearl Harbor._ He scrawled the words into a small notepad he had relieved from a convenience store the day before. He read the words again, making sure his own writing was legible enough to decipher at a later time. Then he circled the final two. Pearl Harbor. Harbor. A location on a map no doubt.

So far, he had filled nearly half of the little pad. Each line was it's own new variable. A potential road map for him to wander down once Brooklyn had served it's purpose. Another date to consult. Another place to explore. Another name to investigate. Each one nothing but a drop in a vast, murky ocean. He took a deep breath, inhaling and exhaling through his nose. He was beginning to grow tired of these questions. What he wanted was an answer. A shred of truth that needed no explanation.

_This is unlike anything I've had to do before. That I can remember. This...mission._

This mission. Is that what this was? Maybe he would be better served if he thought of it as such. There were no timetables. No superiors to report to. But, like all other missions that had come before, the completion of this task was important. Something to give his existence a purpose. He returned to the book, his spirits roused again.

_This passage_. He had read it before. But not here. Somewhere else…

_Washington._ He hadn't meant to begin his search so deep in the mire, but temptation had gotten the better of him. The first book he had grabbed from the stack he had compiled was one that heavily featured the man he supposedly was. This James Buchanan Barnes.

The book had been printed, published, and bound in 1958. New York, New York.

**Heroes of World War II**

1958\. Had he been awake then? He tried to remember, but he knew the likely truth. Even if he had been, the memories were most likely gone. Wiped away so that he could start anew. A clean slate.

**After training in Camp McCoy, Wisconsin, Barnes and the rest of the 107th shipped out to the Italian front. Captured by Hydra troops later that fall, Barnes endured long periods of isolation, deprivation, and torture.**

_Captured by Hydra_. Like tar, the words trapped his gaze, pulling him deeper and deeper into a black abyss.

_S'not right._ He thought. _I-I wasn't...I didn't-_

Cogs in his brain clunked slowly into motion as he tried to recall what _he_ knew to be true. He had joined Hydra. Enlisted. To help- no to change the world. To do what he could. The world needed to be changed. And he was the one to do it. Chosen. For his skill set. For who he was. These words, these thoughts were all he had. The singular constant memory he could return to when all else eluded him. His connection to Hydra had been voluntary. He knew the risks connected to his missions. He knew the sacrifices that he had made. But even as he thought them through, even as he whispered them again and again under his breath…

_They don't belong._ He thought. Suddenly, they sounded wrong. They sounded manufactured. They were all that was clear in his mind but in that clarity, he was beginning to see them for what they were worth. Nothing.

But they were all he had.

Letting out a grunt, he lifted his elbows to the table, slamming them down harder than he meant to. He ran his fingers up his forehead and over his skull, pushing his hair back. He felt as though his brain had been removed and replaced with static and smoke. Words swirled around in his head, but no matter the order he placed them in, they never seemed to come together as they should. Not like they did on the page.

He leaned back, the seat he occupied creaking under his weight. The fluorescent lights above burned his eyes, but it was a welcome change from the sea of shadow. He let the light pierce his eyes, it's biting glow slowly working to ebb the frenzy building in his chest. It stung. But the sting was a welcome distraction.

As his beating heart returned to a more manageable throbbing, the words from the page flashed before him, creeping closer, then vanishing, only to reappear again and again.

Captured by Hydra.

Captured.

Straightening up again, he rubbed his eyes and the words were replaced by spots of light and color.

_It's too much too soon._ He thought, wiping beads of sweat from his brow line.

He slammed the book shut and let it drop to a pile on the floor, leaving the last words in the paragraph unread and unknown to him: _**But his will was strong.**_

He glanced at the watch on his wrist, one he had acquired the week before. 1:25.

_I should be going anyway._ He told himself.

He stood and gathered his collection of books, now thirteen in number. He returned each one to it's appropriate place, hoping no one would take them before he returned. For the past week, he had been frequenting libraries across the city. Searching for any sliver of history he could assemble into a proper memory.

He would wander through the stacks, gathering books of possible relevance as he went. Everything from the history of the great war to the biology behind modern prosthetic technology and it's innovators.

He was wary of using the internet to further his search. He had no way of knowing who or what was tracking him. Too many suspect searches could lead his hunters right to him. This also meant the checking books out officially or attempting to steal them was out of the question. He knew better than others, that very few actions made by a single person went unnoticed in this world. Eyes were everywhere. Ears too. Everything was tracked, logged and kept in files. Files that could be searched. Swiftly, depending on who was looking. If his false trails held strong, his pursuers would not think to look for him in America let alone the borough of Brooklyn. And he would be damned if a foolish mistake on his part dashed out all his hard fought efforts. Even if it did mean he would have to resort to archaic means to get by, caution was his most valuable ally now.

For the moment, however, his search could be put on hold.

After all, he didn't want to be late.

* * *

" _I hear it's your birthday, James."_

" _Yes Mrs. Cole."_

" _And how old are you today?"_

" _13"_

" _Old enough to order all on your own then."_

" _That's right, ma'am."_

" _Well then, what will it be?"_

_A line of sweets were displayed behind amber glass. He pressed his hands to it, drooling over the options. A small basket of lumpy looking cookes caught his eyes._

" _What are those?" he asked, in grueling curiosity._

" _Those are scones," Mrs. Cole answered. "Pumpkin today. Want to try one for free?"_

_He nodded. Mrs. Cole, reached in to the display and pulled the biggest one from the pile. She passed it to him. It was still warm. And it smelled to him like the Thanksgiving meal that was soon to come._

* * *

"Jamie?"

Like thousands of glass shards, the memory fell away. He was sucked, once again, back into the present. He looked up to his left.

Emily stood over him. She was wrapped once again in her navy peacoat. A floral scarf of blues and grays was wrapped around her neck. In one arm, she balanced two small plates. In the other, her mug of tea.

"I'm sorry," She said, brow furrowed in concern. "Did I interrupt?"

"N-no," He answered, straightening in his chair. It was a lie. But then, he had told her so many lies since their first meeting. What would one more matter? Disappointment settled in his gut like a stone, but he was used to the feeling. At the very least, it was better than fiery frustration. Just like his dreams, the memory was already fading away. The harder he tried to grasp it, the farther away it seemed to fly. Until, like sand sinking through the cracks of his fingers, there was nothing left to hold on to.

Before taking a seat across from him, Emily set the two plates down on the table. One in front of him and one across. Atop each one sat a rust colored scone. He recognized it. It was just like the one from his dream.

"Pumpkin Spice today." she said, beaming with pride.

_So that's what it was._ He thought. _The smell inside._

For the last ten days, the pair had continued this burgeoning routine. He would pay for his coffee and wait for her outside under the awning, occupying any available table. She would follow soon after, having clocked out for her lunch half hour. She would bring with her a mug of tea and the daily scones she or one of her baking assistants had made that day.

He would eat and sip his coffee, a taste he was slowly growing fond of. She would talk and talk and talk. And he would hope to hell for another memory to come to him. Most of all, he hoped to see the faces of the women that lived within his memories. But they were still hidden. Locked away somewhere he couldn't reach.

On this day, the sky above was a thick, even sheet of gray. Three customers occupied the table behind Emily and they were talking loudly. Ambient music whispered through speakers that were placed at either corner of the window.

Without another word Emily pulled a large chunk from her scone using her thumb and index finger, licking her lips as she did so. Once she popped the morsel into her mouth, her eyes rolled back and she sunk into a moment of personal bliss.

"Mmm," she mumbled, before diving in for another piece. "Pumpkin is my absolute favorite. And this recipe was my mother's. Well, my grandmother's really. But the recipe's been passed down and preserved. So it's the very best out there, I'd stake my life on that."

He said nothing. Fortunately for him, she didn't find his silent nature deterring.

_Well, it's more fortunate for me._ She thought. _Most of the time, I chase people off cause I'm the one doing all the talking._

She leaned her elbows on the table, watching him with a airy grin on her face.

"So...you gonna try it?" She asked, her voice lilting.

He looked down at the plate, having forgotten it was there. Without a word, he mimicked her, though the piece he tore off was much larger than hers.

A swirl of warmth and spice coated his mouth.

"What do you think?" Emily asked. When she spoke, another voice joined her. The voice from his memory. Mrs. Cole.

_Her grandmother._ He realized.

He answered aloud, with the same words he himself spoke in the memory.

"Just like Thanksgiving."

Whatever "Thanksgiving" was...

Emily smiled, delighted with his response.

"How's your day going?" she asked, taking her tea in hand.

"Better," He said, breaking off another large piece. "Now."

He was, of course, referring to the memory. It's presence in his mind was a comfort. It was another sign that despite his frustrations he was in the right place.

Emily however, could not know this. To her ears, his answer sounded like a glowing compliment. Maybe even a casual flirtation. She couldn't help the pleasant shiver that crawled up her spine. She looked away, turning her gaze left and looking inside the bakery.

_Don't blush_. She thought, trying to will away the warmth that was beginning to collect under her cheeks. _He didn't mean it that way, I know that. I mean, how could he, right?_

She caught sight of her cousins, Rose and Russell, watching her from behind the counter. Rose flashed what looked to be a knowing smile, and Russell popped a thumbs up in her direction.

_Damn them._ Emily thought. She raised her mug up to her face, trying to hide the rosy color that she could feel flooding her cheeks.

Thankfully, Jamie seemed entirely unaware of her little spell.

_He's so...different._ She thought, watching him as he ate.

He was such a peculiar man. Unlike anyone Emily had ever met. He was quiet, but not awkwardly so. He never seemed nervous or shy, only stoic and steadfast. He was focused, she thought. Taking in his surroundings carefully, as though his life depended on it. He was quick to dodge questions, yet he kept returning to the store to have lunch with her. He was interesting to her, but after almost ten days she still had not pinpointed why exactly.

_Maybe it's best to leave well enough alone._ She thought, chewing on another bite of scone.

She watched him drink deeply from his cup before tearing off another piece of scone and eating it. 

_Oh, who cares._

"Can I ask you a question?" She said, clutching tightly to her mug. 

He tensed almost immediately, but she had been expecting it. He had seized up at far less direct questioning, after all. She wondered if he would deny her, but after a short silence he swallowed and then nodded.

"What do you do?" She asked, "For, you know, work and stuff."

_Lie._ His instinct beckoned. And so far, it had yet to lead him astray.

This lie would have to be different. He would have to remember it. Abide by it. Understand it and adopt it. He caught sight of one of the women at the table behind Emily. She was scribbling rapidly on notebook paper.

"I'm a writer." He said, leaning back in his chair. "Freelance."

_Oh, I guess that would explain it._ Emily thought, relaxing into her chair as well.

"Explain what?" he asked.

Emily looked up. _Lord, did I say that out loud?_

The blush returned in full force.

"Oh, um, just - it would explain-" She stuttered.

_It would explain the disheveled appearance and seemingly 24/7 lack of sleep that you seem to operate under. The quiet nature, the grumpy nature, the...just everything I think I know about you._

"Your...hours." She finally blurted. "You're not a nine to fiver. I was, heh, wondering."

Jamie just nodded. He didn't know what a "nine to fiver" was and he didn't care to find out.

"Are you working on anything now?" Emily asked, dying for a change in subject.

"Research," He said, after giving it some thought. "Just research at the moment."

That answer wasn't a lie. In fact, it may have been the first true thing he had told her. It was a relief, really. Even if he couldn't find any truths, at least he was capable of speaking them on his own.

"Oh?" She said. "What kind of research?"

"The past." He answered. "History. My history."

"Is that why you moved here?" She asked.

He nodded.

They both chewed and sipped in silence for several minutes, content with the simple pleasure of another's company.

Emily peered out from under the awning.

"It's a beautiful day isn't it?" She said.

He stared at her, brows furrowed in confusion. This was not a day he believed was considered beautiful by most. _Such an odd woman._

"Not the sky," Emily explained, sensing his bewilderment. "I mean...you can feel it can't you?"

"Feel what?" He asked bluntly.

"That...well, that feeling in the air." She said, "The ice and the wind."

She breathed deeply and smoky breath flowed from between her lips.

"It's coming soon," She said. "The first snow."

He looked up to the sky, slid his eyes shut and tried to feel what she was talking about. But he felt nothing.

"I should be getting back." Emily said.

"Alright," He responded.

"Oh," She said, pausing as she stacked his empty plate on top of hers. "I almost forgot to say, I won't be coming into work until Tuesday. I've got a little mini vacation."

"I see." He said.

"You can keep coming of course." She said quickly. "I just won't be here. I...wanted to let you know I guess."

_It sounds silly, now._ Emily thought, gulping. _Saying it out loud. Why would he care? We're still practically strangers._

Bucky watched her. _If she's not here..._

The thought hung in his head, but he couldn't piece together an ending. Did it matter if she wasn't here? It was her voice, her food that stirred his memories. At least that was what he had come to believe. If she wasn't there the next day, would he be left with nothing. It was a possibility. One he didn't want to know.

"Goodbye, Emily." He said, pushing his worries away and standing up. 

Emily looked up at him.

"Goodbye, Jamie."

* * *

Emily watched him go, unsure of what to make of his solemn, emotionless farewell.

_I'll see him again._ She thought, setting her mind back to work. She still had 4 hours left to work.

After depositing the dishes into the sink, Emily stepped into the back office to return her coat and scarf to her locker. Once the coat was hung, she tugged absentmindedly on one end of her scarf, letting it slide gently around her throat until she had pulled it free. She wrapped it around the collar of her coat and closed the locker door.

Turning, Emily leaned her back against the locker, tugging at a lock of hair that had come loose. Her heart was pulsing pleasantly in her chest and she could feel a troupe of butterflies frolicking in her stomach.

_I'm gonna miss him tomorrow, I know it._ She thought, somewhat dazed. _I haven't felt this way about someone since...Well, since Bennett. And that was 3 years ago._

Leaving the office, she pulled the stray lock of hair back into place and grabbed her apron from the hook by the door.

_It's not like I_ like _like him._ She thought, tying the apron around her waist. _I can't, I hardly know him._

"Hi George." Emily said to her baker on call.

"Hi Emily," George said, "The scones are good to go."

"Thanks," she said. She grabbed a basket from under the counter and began transferring the fresh baked scones into it. Once she was done, she took the basket in both hands and headed out of the kitchen.

_I just don't 'dislike' him...so, in that way, I like him._

She caught sight of her reflection in the circular window of the door that led out into the bakery.

"Yeah." She said, addressing herself. "That's all."

The butterflies in her stomach dispersed and she felt the blush from her face drain away. She pushed through the door, pleased that the matter was behind her.

At least, it would have been, if not for her cousins.

"So…" Rose said, the minute she saw Emily slip out from the kitchen. "What's the deal with the hobo?"

She was smiling and her voice was teasing, but Emily knew to read between the lines. At 34, Rose was the eldest of the Cole cousins and she wore that honor with pride. She was always available for chats and she doled out advice much like a world weary mother.

"He's not a hobo." Emily corrected, holding the basket against her hip so she could pry open the glass door.

"He's got the vibe though." Russell piped in from his spot over by the whirring espresso machine.

Emily turned to shoot him a playfully scathing glare. Even though Rose's mother, Diana, had adopted Russell all the way from China only a year after Emily was born, to her he was no less of a blood relative than Rose was. He was a year older than she was and they had gone through school together, from Kindergarten to High School.

The glare, as Emily suspected, did nothing to deter him.

"The hobo vibe." He repeated for deference.

"Well, he's not." Emily said. She smiled at a customer who was keenly studying the menu. "Let me know if you need anything, ma'am."

Once she had finished stacking the scones, she shut the glass door.

"He's a writer." She explained, thankful she had needled an answer out of him.

"Well, that makes sense." Rose said. "But seriously, what's going on there?"

"You mean besides pleasant conversation?" Emily asked, feigning cooperation.

"Obviously," Russell said, handing off a drink to another customer.

"Nothing at all." Emily answered, coyly.

"Lies!" Rose and Russell cried.

"We saw the blush." Rose continued.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Emily said airily.

"Don't deny it, you were redder than Rose's hair dye." Russell said.

Rose almost dropped her trusty organizer and Emily snickered.

"So help me, Russ, it's _not_ dye. And you _know_ it. I-" She sputtered.

"Yeah, yeah, we know the drill," Russell said, pretending to hide behind his washcloth.

"Miss?" The customer called.

"Yes, what can I get for you?" Emily asked, thankful for the woman's timing.

As Rose passed her by she whispered, "Don't think you're off the hook."

* * *

6:30 marked the end of Emily's shift and the start of her mini-vacation. The promise of impending freedom only made the clock tick by slower and slower. Thursdays evenings were never very busy and the cold weather was most likely keeping people snuggled up indoors.

Finally, her time came.

"Good shift," Russell called as she left. "See you Sunday."

Emily waved back. "See you Sunday!"

Stepping outside was like stepping into the freezer back in the kitchen. Emily shivered, and pulled her scarf tighter around her neck. Thankfully, the dark clouds had kept their rain storms tucked away that day. Her walk home would not be plagued by icy rain or slippery puddles.

Her apartment was just three blocks away, a walk she had completed time and time again. It would take no more than 10 minutes, but her feet and back were aching from a double shift. She walked quickly that night, all the way thinking fondly of the warm bath that she would draw up the moment she got home.

_I really prefer the morning shifts._ She thought, waiting for a taxi to roll by before she crossed the street.

There was something marvelous about greeting people in the morning hours. Knowing that they came to her bakery to start their day off right was a pat to her ego. Emily loved chatting with the regulars and sending them off with coffees and bite sized treats. As her mother had always told her, a little sweetness could make all the difference in a day. Afternoon and evening shifts had their own charms. Watching first dates and conspiring reunions was another little pleasure she reveled in. But there was something truly special about the morning shifts. The small thrill of preparing the day's breads and treats. Opening the store and watching people file in, knowing all the work was well worth it.

_I am working Tuesday morning._ She thought, climbing the steps to her building door. _So there's that._

While work was her primary source of joy and purpose, it was her apartment that was her temple.

Before Emily had moved in, the place had belonged to her great aunt Sophie; a second generation Cole and the only one of her siblings not to marry. She was a charming woman, who loved her independence and preferred traveling and baking to children or a husband. Four years ago when she passed, she left the apartment to her relatives. The Cole family decided that Emily was the best fit for the one bedroom apartment, for the time being. There was talk of her younger cousin Jess moving in once she had finished her schooling but for now, 104 Willow Street, Apt. 3 was all hers. She paid rent to her brother every month, but thanks to rent control it was pennies compared to what else was out there and Emily was grateful to have a space all to herself.

The building had been erected even before the bakery, but it had been updated here and there over the century. It was brick building, sandwiched between a sky blue townhouse and more traditional brownstone. The other tenants of 104 Willow Street were all much older than her, as were most of the residents that occupied her block of the street. Emily didn't mind. It was a quiet neighborhood and she always craved a little peace after working in the hustle of the bakery.

After a long, steamy bath and a small dinner of canned soup and half a grilled cheese sandwich Emily fell happily into bed.

"Ahhh," She said aloud, stretching her limbs as far as she could.

She rolled onto her side and grabbed her phone from the table.

_No need to set my alarm tonight._ She thought gleefully. _Just have to see what's up for tomorrow._

"Tomorrow…" she said aloud, scrolling through her calendar. "tomorrow…"

_Ugh_. She thought, scrolling away. _Laundry day._

"I loathe laundry day." She groaned, pouting like a spoiled child.

_Oh well,_ She thought, placing the phone back on her night stand. _Before I have even think about that. I'_ _m gonna sleep. And sleep._

She yawned, rolled over onto her stomach and buried her head in her pillow.

_And sleep_.

* * *

Cold. Every inch of him was cold. His veins felt like rivers frozen solid. His joint were growing stiffer with every step. His legs felt like tree stumps, never meant for such vigorous motion.

At first, he thought the sounds he heard were ghost. Wailing, whistling screaming. Surrounding him with their cries.

Wind, he registered. Just the wind. Normal for a blizzard like this.

Is that what this was? A blizzard. As feeling spread through his body, a heavy weight fell into his hands. He looked down. He carried a firearm. This was a mission. He was on a mission.

These would be trying circumstances for any man. But he was more than a man. No storm could hold him back. It was his alias after all. The _Winter_ Soldier. A title to incite fear, yes, but it was not entirely unfounded in reality.

Urgency was all he knew now. His window of time was closing rapidly. With every gasping breath that burned his throat, seconds were vanishing. Time was everything. He needed to move faster. Push harder.

The day would be ending soon. What little sunlight that managed to bleed through the thick storm clouds would very quickly dissipate and the hunt would be rendered impossible. Even now his vision was far too compromised. No shot he took now could be taken with confidence. The team he had been dispatched with was leagues behind, unable to tread through the snow and sleet as easily as he could.

He didn't know the name of the mountain he was currently scaling. It was not necessary for him to know. He had all the information needed to complete the mission at hand. His task had been an easy one initially. A defector had been identified amongst a team of scientists working deep within Hydra's eastern ranks. Researchers like this man, J.G. Wexler, had been known to be liabilities. _Thinkers_ , the director had told him, _often think themselves into an early grave_.

_It was our mistake,_ he said. _Wexler was a known risk._

His mission: erase the error. Swiftly. By any means necessary.

Wexler proved to be more slippery than any of them could have anticipated. He had predicted that his recent actions had aroused suspicion within the high ranks of Hydra. Just as the strike team had swooped in for questioning he managed to escape the research compound, taking with him documentation that would derail the secrecy that allowed Hydra to survive and thrive without rupture. If their livelihood was to remain in the shadows where it belonged, the target would have to be dealt with as quickly as possible.

Wexler's fear had sealed his fate. The order came down quickly. Death to the traitor.

If it weren't for the storm, the job would have been done by now. The barrage of snow had made his tracks nearly impossible to trace.

He had been warned in the briefing that something like this could happen. This inconvenience. This setback.

The target knew these mountains well. Even in the grueling cold, Wexler stood a better chance of surviving he did. There were caves littered about the mountain side, anyone one of which could serve as a temporary shelter.

He would have to track him down before he could vanish into a crevice like fleeing vermin.

As if to answer his thoughts, an unnatural sound reached his ears. It cut through the raging winds.

Snow. Crushed beneath a heavy weight.

At first he thought he had imagined it. But it came again. From his left. The sounds were uneven. Staggered.

Wexler. It had to be.

He returned his finger to the trigger of his weapon. Holding it close to his chest, his eyes slipped shut. The winds were still howling, but he focused all his attention, all his might on the sound that would something his shot.

Slowly, with aching precision, he lifted the gun into position. Through the view finder, he could see traces of heat.

Everything but the sound of his own quipped breaths faded away. Not even his own heart beat could distract him now.

_...There._

He pulled the trigger.

Before he could take another breath, a piercing cry echoed over the mountain side. His target had been hit.

Dropping the gun into the freshly fallen powder, he grabbed at the flare kept strapped to his left thigh. Lighting it, he sent it soaring into the air.

But his work was not yet done. He still had to retrieve the files and insure that the target was dead.

His slipped a knife from his right pocket, holding it in his right hand.

Carefully, he moved closer to the sniveling noises that combatted the raging winds. In seven steps, he could see his target. Three more and he would be on top of him. Wexler was late to notice the arrival of his pursuer, but when he did he started to babble.

"остановить. не подходи ближе!"

The sputtering pleas were of no consequence to the Winter Soldier. He knew. Bargaining, fear, anger, none of it mattered.

His metal arm covered the man's face, quieting the fruitless talk. He raised the knife, positioning it under Wexler's left ear.

The deed was done in an instant. Blood sputtered from the gaping wound on the targets neck like water from a fountain. As it seeped into the snow, the raging winds picked up it's salty stench and spread it like hot flames.

Unfazed, he began searching for the documents. The body twitched in his metallic grasp, still trying to cling to the little life left.

He found them, hidden in a small envelope tucked into the man's shoe.

He stood and turned to address the growing commotion behind him. The team had finally caught up.

The mission handler, Agent Donovan, approached him with a small communicator.

He took it without question.

"This Deputy Director Pierce. Mission Report." a voice buzzed through.

"Package Retrieved and in Route." He answered dutifully, passing the envelope to another agent.

"And Wexler?"

"Confirmed Kill."

"The director thanks you for your service."

The line cut out.

He returned the phone to the agent.

"Any injuries?"

"No."

"You sure?"

Donovan motioned to his arm. The soldier looked down.

Even in the dying light, he could see why Donovan doubted him. His arms, his torso, practically all of his body was covered in blood. The cold air had worked quickly, sealing the blood to his uniform. He lifted his right hand to his face. He could feel it. Blood. Sinking through the glove he wore. Touching his skin. Burning. Like ice.

* * *

As quickly as he had been dropped into it, he felt himself torn from the nightmare.

He woke, gasping for air, his body covered in a cold sweat.

A dream. Or...a memory? It had been far more vivid than anything that had plagued his mind before. He could see the snow. Feel the blood coating him, weighing him down. He could still smell it. Taste it on his lips.

What had brought this on? What had he done to elicit such a strong memory? He had to know.

Cold air hit his face. Turning to the right, he saw it.

He had left his window open. To combat the fevers that usually hit in the night.

Early morning winds danced through the window, carrying with them flurries of white.

It was just as Emily had said.

The first snow had come.


	4. Turning Page

All he had was his research. That, and the nightmares. They were horrid things, offering him visions of his cloudy past in grisly detail. And yet, they held no clues to his identity. The only faces that came clearly belonged to targets. Victims. Now nothing but bodies left for anonymous decay. There was only blood and ice. And fear.

And a name. Deputy Director Pierce.

It wasn't enough. He didn't know much, but he knew a name like that would not be found in books. It would be hidden away, impossible to find, even for the most seasoned of searchers.

Still, it was all he had. A weak, flickering light in the shadows. So he returned to the library. Again and again. Day after day. To his research.

Analyzing the texts in front of him did not come easy. His vision blurred if he stared at the pages for too long. Strings upon strings of restless nights meant he was fighting a constant battle against a lack of inhibition. His mind was a jumble of information, dry like desert sands. Letters and words entered his mind in scattered groupings. Notes stuck together in an order he knew couldn't be right. At times, he simply couldn't concentrate long enough to piece it all together.

He was not accustomed to such work. His objectives were always simple ones. Retrieve. Erase. Destroy.

To make matters all the more frustrating, many of the words were beyond the scope of his comprehension. He was forced to jump between books and case studies, searching for definitions, theorems, anything that could help him to _understand._ The longer he poured over the resources, the more heat bubbled in his veins making him sweat and squirm in the stuffy maze of books. Most days, he was forced to leave early, overwhelmed by the numbers and dates and locations and facts. The cold winter air sent chilling spikes through his tired bones, but it was a comforting, familiar feeling. The outside world was vast and filled with dangers, but he felt more in his element there, away from the books with all their mired, useless words.

Not one text sparked a memory. Not one-

He stopped, his finger hovering over picture. His eyes darted to the description. Finally, mercifully, he had stumbled upon recognition.

A face. And with it a name.

Roman Kosyak. **Dr.** Roman Kosyak. In the picture, the man looked just past middle aged. His hairline was a lighter shade of gray and showed early signs of receding. A small pair of glasses rested on an thin, angled nose. He wore a white coat and a red bow tie. A scientist, by the look of him. It was the eyes that had drawn his attention. They were small and dark, like sunken pebbles, but they implied a fierce and controlled intelligence.

Something about them felt familiar. He had seen them before. On more than one occasion.

He left his seat, returning once again to the stacks searching for any book that contained the name. After a frenzied search, he came up with three books. He opened the first, eyes pouring over the page.

_**Dr. Roman Kosyak, Soviet deserter.** _

_Best known for his work in Prosthetic Engineering, Dr. Kosyak's contributions to biological technology are still highly regarded in today's post-modern circles._

_After fleeing to America, Dr. Kosyak worked with American Intelligence agencies on numerous projects*. Most notably:_

**Project: Flagship - Research Assistant**

**Project: Burrow - Development Supervisor**

**Project Adelaide - Director**

_***Documents containing additional information on his work have been deemed classified. Access is limited.** _

What little color he had drained from his face. Another block. Another fucking dead end.

He searched through the remaining books he had found, only to be met with the same chilling answer. Classified. Classified. Classified.

He had been expecting this with Pierce. He was not so naive to think easy answers could be acquired through civilian channels, but to be so utterly defeated at every turn…

Anger and outrage began to ebb and he was left with nothing but his emptiness. With numb fingers, he turned through the pages to the index. His eyes moved slowly over the words now, heavy with hopelessness.

_**Case studies are available for viewing at participating universities and libraries. Some texts require permission before viewing. A list of participating facilities is available on xxi.** _

He read the words over and over again. xxi. Numbers disguised as letters. The mind moved with urgency, translating. He shuffled through the pages again, his heart quickening.

The list was short. But there it was.

Othmar Library, New York, United States.

He leapt from his seat, his knees slamming into the desk. He felt winded, his head was spinning. Normally such feelings were accompanied by despair and exhaustion, but he felt light and more awake than he had in weeks.

The address was close, he could probably make it by foot.

Abandoning the books he had been rustling through, he left the library.

* * *

_Don't do it, Emily._

It was the last day of Emily's mandatory vacation and her restlessness had reached it peak. She absolutely abhorred the time off her cousin (technically her boss) forced on her each quarter. Days she spent away from the bakery were days wasted in her mind. There was always time for relaxing in between shifts, after all.

Unfortunately, Rose had the law on her side and there was little Emily could do to protest. So she absolved to take short vacations every few months. None of which ever lasted longer than four days. She knew of course that her staffers were perfectly capable without her. She knew that most likely these vacations were good for her, but she would never admit it out loud. It wasn't that she didn't enjoy hunkering down with a good book, spending a day at the beach, or seeing a good movie. She just enjoyed being in the kitchen much more. She had only been out for three days, yet she missed the smell of vanilla and the feeling of flour caked on her hands. She missed the hustle of lunch hour rushes. She missed closing time, when she would be the last to leave, bone tired yet happier than she could ever hope to be.

Instead, she was forced to while away the hours moving from one distraction to another. On the first day, she had breezed through another book on her must-read shelf. On the second day, she beat her personal record for longest bath and binged watched a new BBC period series (which was sadly, yet predictably, made up of a measly six episodes). On the third day she had seen two movies at two separate theaters and spent the evening with her youngest cousin, Jessica. It was only a matter of time before her discontent would lead to something like this. Emily was a woman of few vices. But this was the most harmful of them all. Shopping.

She stood outside of La Maison, a small specialty store. By nature, it was the most authentically French place in Manhattan. Simply stepping inside always ignited memories of her time spent in Paris at pastry school.

Against her better judgement and the faint whispers of her bank account, Emily stepped inside the store. Heat flushed her cheeks and her eyes slipped shut. She inhaled the smells of citrus and pear as waves of nostalgia coursed pleasantly through her veins. A portable radio sat at the register in the front playing calming songs sung only in french.

With a gleeful smile playing at her lips, she began a slow walk through the aisles of carefully organized displays. There was nothing in the store that she needed. Her apartment was home to a cramped and therefore well stocked kitchen. Still, she couldn't help but marvel at specialty doodads and trinkets.

She waved to the woman behind the counter and continued on her way, fighting the impulse to buy as she went.

* * *

Close by, a soldier wandered. He was without direction, without enough focus to lead him. It was so unfair. He had the map in his head when he left the library. It wasn't difficult. Why couldn't he remember?

_Cross 5th. Head east towards the Police Station at the corner of...at the corner of…_

He ducked into an alleyway and slammed his metal fist into the wall. Bits of brick crumbled into the sand under his hand and dribbled pathetically to the salted street below. The glove that covered his hand tore at the knuckles.

What was _wrong_ with him?

He rubbed his eyes with his real hand after removing the glove. He was always careful to do so. His face, his skin, he needed them to be connected. He needed to know that he was more human than...than mechanical creation. More human than a weapon. Not simply a tool. More than a fist.

He stopped. His eyes had registered a figure in the window he had almost walked past. Desperate for something familiar. Something he _knew_. He stepped backwards and peered into the window.

It belonged to a shop. A sign hung above it with words he did not understand, though they too, looked familiar to him.

_Spanish. No...French._ He realized. Had he been to France? It was likely perhaps. He still knew so little about his past missions.

Returning his gaze to the window, he searched for the sign of recognition.

Sure enough, a familiar face lay just on the other side of the glass. He had seen the woman before...recently. She was-

_Emily._ He realized, somewhat deflated. She was nothing new.

He almost didn't recognize her. In all the times he had seen her, spoken with her, sat with her, she had worn her hair up. Now, thick waves of dark hair fell around her face and past her shoulder. A slim red band rested on her head. She wore a checked collared shirt under the same navy peacoat he had seen her wear before.

He realized too late that he had been watching her for far too long. Just before he moved away, she looked up and their eyes met.

Almost instantly, she smiled. He balked, not used to such a reaction.

She set down the book she had been flipping through and scurried out the door.

"Jamie!" She called. "Hello."

"Uh, hey." He answered, his mind a daze. She carried with her a strong citrus smell that was turning his stomach.

"How are you?" She asked.

"I um, good." He stumbled.

A puff of smoke exited her lips and drifted up into the sky. He watched it go, unable to meet her eager gaze. 

"You?" He said, several seconds too late.

"Oh, I'm good." She said, beaming. "Just admiring things I haven't the money for. You know how it is around this time of year…"

"Yeah," he said, though he did not know at all what she was referring to.

Silence drifted between them.

_Say something._ _You need to say something._

"I didn't recognize you." He said, picking at the first bit of truth his mind presented him with. 

"Hmmm?" Emily responded, tilting her head.

He frowned. It was the truth. But apparently not a truth worth vocalizing.

"Your hair." He said, trying to explain.

"My hair?" Emily repeated, lifting a hand to her head. "Oh! Because it's down? I know, I never wear it down it work."

He breathed a sigh of relief.

"Where are you off to?" Emily asked, puffs of minty air flowing from her mouth like small clouds.

"The Othmar." The words were out before he could stop them. He cursed under his breath, stuffing his hands into his pockets. What possessed him to be so truthful around her? It was a such a danger and yet he couldn't help himself. 

"The Othmar?" She repeated. "Oh! The old library. That's on the same street as the bakery! Well, I mean, its a long, long, long way down...maybe like 12 blocks or so but-"

**_She knows where it is._ **

"Can you take me there?" He asked, suppressing the desire to grab her by the shoulders and shake her.

"Take you?" Emily questions, her brow knit.

"I-I'm," He started, realizing too late that it was an odd request.

"Oh, Jamie." Emily said, sensing his confusion. "You're not lost are you?"

She had never known a man to ask her for directions. It was a silly stereotype, but until this point in her life it had gone entirely uncontested.

"I wanted to look at some manuscripts." He said, hoping that the truth would help his case. "But, I'm not exactly sure where I'm going."

"Well, I can show you the way." She said brightly, hoping to buoy his spirits.

"No." He said, lifting his head again. "I couldn't ask you to-"

"Nonsense, I need to get out of here before I buy anything." She said. "Let's go!"

* * *

**Open Hours**

**Tuesday - Thursday 10am - 6pm**

**Friday - Saturday 10am - 4pm**

**Closed Mondays & Sundays**

**Tours: Saturdays, 12pm & 3pm**

**Thank you, Brooklyn Historical Society**

"It's closed." Emily read.

His distress, it seemed, had not been entirely unfounded. Another roadblock. It feel upon him like a heavy stone. Another piece to a pile that would soon crush his hope completely. Was this all a lost cause?

As he fretted, Emily watched him.

She realized that she had never really stood next to him until now. He was such a large man, towering both in height and sheer body mass. Yet now he looked positively defeated. Shaved down to a shadow. Out of the warm light of the bakery, his cheeks looked hollow, his skin was almost sickly pale. It was no wonder her cousins had been so quick to label him as homeless. _I wonder...when was the last time he ate?_

"Are you hungry?" She asked.

He looked down at her, seemingly confused by the question. "N-no, I-"

"Well, you look it." She said, injecting a sugary tone to distract from her blatant veracity. "And so am I. We just passed a little sandwich shop, c'mon."

She could tell he meant to protest, so she tugged at his jacket. It was a pathetic little attempt on her part, but Jamie couldn't ignore the painful churning that was ignited in his stomach. Once more, against his better judgement, he yielded and let her pull him along. 

_I need to be more careful._ He thought. Thankfully, she had grabbed at his right arm and not his mechanical appendage.

"Here we are." Emily said brightly. She pulled him inside a small gated seating area just outside of the entrance. Instead of going inside, she directed him to a small yellow table. "You sit, I'll be back."

He watched her go, his stomach rumbling loudly. Even so, he felt decidedly uncomfortable. Something about this situation was wrong. 

_She can't pay for you._ A voice called out in his head. _That's not how it's done. She's a lady and you're the man._

_How it's done? How **what** was done?_

She returned before he could ponder the strange thought any longer.

"Here you go," She said, dropping a tray down in front of him. "Don't worry about paying. The manager is a family friend."

The pestering voice in the back of his head was placated by her words, and once again it disappeared. His hands shook like leaves in a wind as he reached for the food. The smell of it made his head spin.

As Emily watched him eat, worry set deeper into her features. She took small bites of her own sandwich, but she couldn't swallow her pressing instinct.

"Are you eating, Jamie?" She asked gently. "I mean, on a daily basis."

He stopped, having already consumed half of the sandwich in three large gulps. 

"Yes." He said, recognizing it was what she needed to hear. With his belly temporarily appeased, he couldn't remember whether or not this was another lie. When was the last time he ate? At the bakery. And...how long ago was that?

_Doesn't matter._ He concluded, tearing another large piece from the sandwich. He swallowed, reveling in the feeling of food dropping down his throat and into his stomach.

Emily chewed on her lower lip. _I'm not his family, hardly even a friend. It's not really my place to say anything…_

She leaned forward, resting on her folded arms. "Jamie…"

He wasn't looking at her. His attention was still glued to his plate.

She had been told by her aunts, her cousins, even her father that she shouldn't meddle. From the time she was young, she had always been too eager to give out food or money. She never saw any harm it in, but there were occasions where perhaps she had taken things too far. The warnings from her family were sparse, but she took them to heart every so often. It wasn't enough to stop her now, however.

"I get it." She said. "My job is my everything, but sometimes I get carried away, you know? The little things pile up and I lose track of them because my attention is focused on other things. Bills, doctors appointments, exercise…"

_**Food**_ _._ She thought, watching him practically inhale the sandwich. She wished she had the guts to just come out and say it, but that felt like a step too far.

"It's important to care of yourself." She said, finally.

Jamie stopped, though at first he wasn't sure why. Then, for the first time, his own voice erupted in memory.

* * *

_**It's important to take care of yourself, Steve.** _

_Bucky, don't start with that again._

_**What? Watching out for you?! Someone's got to do it. Especially if you keep picking fights with jerks like Tommy de Soto. There's only so many times I can rush you to the hospital without telling your mother.** _

_Someone's got to stand up to him._

_**Yeah, well you don't have to do it alone, idiot.** _

* * *

It was only a voice. A far away voice. But he knew this voice. It was familiar.

"Are you okay?"

Emily's voice had sounded just like his had in the memory. Laced with...something. What was it? Concern. She was worried? For him?

He couldn't see why. He was still a stranger to her.

"Fine." He said. Her distress, however minute, made him anxious. He didn't like it.

The sky, dappled with dark clouds, was beginning to darken. Strings of small lights that were wrapped around the seating enclosure flickered on. Emily pushed back the sleeve of her coat and glanced at her watch.

"Oh," She said, scrambling to stand. "It's almost 5 o'clock!"

Nudged by the pestering voice again, Jamie rose from his seat as well. _Stand when she stands. It's what you do._

"I'm sorry, I have to meet my family for dinner. I didn't even realize the time..." She said, trailing off.

Then she muttered to herself, "If I'm going to make it, I should probably take the subway."

"I can take you." He said. Had he meant to say those words? No, it was the voice in his head again. _It's what you do. Escort her home._

He frowned, the constant barrage of questionable instincts was beginning to annoy him. Then again, his instinct had yet to lead him in the wrong direction. 

"Oh no, you don't have to." Emily said, taken aback.

"You came all the way here with me." He said, hoping to quiet the voice completely. "It's, uh, the least I can do."

Emily considered it. She did hate riding the subway by herself, but was she imposing? _He's the one offering._

"Alright then," Emily said. "I think there's a stop just around the corner."

* * *

Time was not on their side. Legions of workers, bogged down by Monday blues, were already beginning their sluggish commutes. After managing to slip through the crowds and purchase tickets, the pair made their way down in hopes of actually catching a car. The trek was much easier for Emily and not only because of her size. He knew he had been right to avoid the subway up until this point. The close quarters meant his arm could be easily discovered if he wasn't careful. He moved slowly around the crowds, careful not to come into contact with anyone. The sounds and flashing lights and shadows were gnawing at his already damaged facade. He focused his attention on Emily, following close behind her.

_She's so small._ He thought. He hadn't really noticed before.

They managed to slip into a car, though inside it was packed window to window. Emily looked around for a seat but saw none.

"Guess we're standing." She said with a small laugh. The car jolted forward. Emily reached up to grab at the bar above her. She flushed, knowing full well she was too short to reach it.

_And this is why I don't take the subway._ She thought _. I knew I should've worn my boots with heels today._

She tried again to reach it, stretching to the very tips of her toes, but even then she could just barely wrap her fingers around the bar.

_Any jolt or fast brake and I'll ram right into someone._ She thought, sighing in frustration.

She was so wrapped up in trying to keep her balance, she didn't realize that Jamie was watching her.

He looked up to his own hand, tightly wrapped around the bar above him. Pulling his mechanical arm up, he gripped the bar and lowered his other arm down to his side.

"Emily," He called quietly.

She looked up. "Yes?"

He offered her his arm. She looked down at it, not understanding.

"Oh!" She said, her face going pink. "T-thank you."

Gingerly, she placed her arm over his, her touch as light as a feathers. Almost immediately Jamie felt whit hot heat shoot through his nerves, pooling around the place where her hand touched his arm. He swallowed, every ounce of his senses focusing on the breath of pressure.

The carriage took a rocking turn and Emily jerked into him, wrapping her other hand around his upper arm to catch herself.

"Sorry, I-"

"Don't," He said, curtly. "It's fine."

"Okay," Emily said. She straightened up, but didn't release his arm.

His army green jacket was well insulated and thick, but she could still feel heat from his skin radiating through. He smelled of coffee and books. _He must spend a lot of time with his research._

As the subway rattled on, her head would brush against his arm. It had been so long since she had been this close to a man outside of her family. It was strange how something so inconsequential could make her feel as light as air.

_It feels nice._ She thought, the flush in her cheeks deepening. _This is silly. He's just being helpful._

After five stops, they reached their destination. The sun had set; soft orange and bright neon lights were aglow as far as they could see.

"I'm this way." Emily said softly.

Jamie just nodded, following just behind her.

"Will you be going back to the library?" Emily asked, when they had reached her building. "When it's open?"

"Yes," Jamie said.

Emily paused.

"I would like to go with you."

"You would?" He asked.

She nodded. "Only if you'll have me along."

"Yes." He said, without a second of consideration. "I would like that."

She smiled wide.

"Goodnight, Jamie." She said, before turning and bounding up the stairs.

"Goodnight." He repeated quietly, watching her go.

Warmth still lingered in his arm. It radiated through his nervous system, calming his heart and silencing the voices in his head.

_Maybe today wasn't a waste._ He thought.

* * *

"Jules? It's me. I think-I think just made a date with the-"

"With the hotty hobo?!"

_Dang it._ Emily thought, collapsing backwards onto her bed. She pressed the speaker button on her phone and let her arm fall off to the side. _Russell got to her first._

"He's not a hobo." Emily said grumpily even though she was unable to contain a giddy smile. How unlike herself, to ask a stranger on a date. She was still reeling from the thrill of it. The sound of his "yes."

"But he is a hottie?"

"He's…" Emily thought back to the subway ride. Her heart had yet to stop skipping beats. "Well, he's very nice."

"Bubble baths and Christmas trees are very nice, Emily." Juliet said, flatly.

"He's cute." Emily corrected with a sigh. "In a...scruffy way."

"Cause he's a hobo."

"He's not!" Emily wailed. "He's a writer."

"Ooooh, how... _bohemian_." Juliet said, echoing Rose and Russell's teasing tone.

"Don't you tell anyone, Jules." Emily warned, ignoring her. "At least...not yet."

"Scouts honor, Em."

* * *

Thank you so much for reading! 


	5. Dark Clouds

"Well, it's a good thing we don't bake _actual_ turkeys." Emily said, wiping small beads of sweat from her brow.

She shut the oven door, carrying in two gloved hands a sheet of steaming cookies. With the night's work almost complete, she could feel the strain in her arms. She yawned and paused to tuck a stray curl back under the folded floral bandana that was keeping her hair back as she set it down. Since it was after hours, Emily wasn't decked out in her usual uniform. Instead she wore a red cotton tunic blouse and fleece leggings. The heat of the kitchen was enough to keep her warm.

"Just three dozen more and we're free." She announced to her late night companions, smiling cheerfully.

The holiday season had once again crept up on Emily and the rest of the Cole Family. As quickly as the snow had blown in, Turkey Day had come. In 1956, Emily's great aunt had crafted a fairly simple, but addictive recipe for Cole "Turkey" cookies. Since that time, orders were taken all throughout November and the Cole family would keep the Bakery open Thanksgiving Eve for pickups and deliveries. It was the first of a myriad of holiday traditions the Cole Corner Bakery was known for.

Her decorator Juliet Hsu, was fellow baker and pastry chef. She was a freelance baker and designer year round, but during the holidays she always came to help the Cole Bakery with the rush of orders. At the moment, she was bent over a line of cookies with her piping bag in hand. She was not just a colleague, but Emily's dearest friend. They had met at the Ferrandi School of Culinary Arts in France. Both had been the sole scholarship students from the states. It had been an intensive two years. Months of struggle and slaving over their work, learning French on the fly and exploring the countryside had forged a tight bond between the two. After graduation, Emily had convinced her to move from her stateside home on the west coast and start working freelance in New York. Emily had even been able to find her a roommate in the form of her cousin Jessica.

"I can't thank you enough for coming in, Juliet." Rose called from the back office. She was busy separating order sheets and writing out the delivery schedule with Russell's assistance.

"It wouldn't be Thanksgiving without these little guys!" Juliet called back.

Emily smiled, thrilled that the bakery's work had become such an important part of people's holiday experience. She laid the last turkey out on the sheet and set it in the oven. Once the timer had been set, she joined Juliet on the decorating line.

"So," Juliet said in a whisper, "your boy didn't show up today?"

Emily, entirely too focused on spooning another scoop of spiced frosting into her piping bag, didn't comprehend.

"What boy?" She asked.

"Your hobo boy!" Russell called from the back room.

Emily's face flushed to match her shirt. Juliet sniggered.

"He's not _my_ boy!" Emily said.

"Oh come on, Emily." Juliet said, bearing down over her cookie with the same care and attention a surgeon would give their patient. "Are you telling me that little trip to the library wasn't a date? I mean-"

Emily nearly leapt over the table in a futile attempt to shush her friend.

"Juliet!" She hissed, feeling her heart plunge into her stomach.

It was too late.

A clamor erupted from the back office.

"What did she say?" Rose demanded, poking her head around the door.

"I heard date! She said date!" Russell yelped, parroting his sisters urgency.

"Oh, lord." Emily said, rubbing her tied brow with the back of her hand.

Juliet looked up from her turkey cookie, understanding her mistake far too late. "Oops."

Rose and Russell came bursting into the kitchen as though they had been shot from a catapult.

"You saw him outside of work!?" Rose pressed. "You went to the _library on a date_?"

"With the hobo?" Russell finished.

"Enough with the hobo talk!" Emily huffed. She pretended to scratch at her bottom lip, trying to hide the fact that she was grinning.

"Answer the question, Em." Rose said.

"It wasn't a date, you can all calm down." Emily said, crossing over the to sink to wash her hands clean. As she scrubbed away another gunky layer of flour, she could feel three sets of eyes boring into her back.

Truly, it hadn't been a date. She didn't feel butterflies when she was with Jamie. She didn't make any attempt to flirt. She simply felt at ease. His quiet nature was refreshing in a way she couldn't quite explain. He didn't drone on like other men did. All she really wanted to talk about was work, and he didn't seem to mind. She didn't feel the need to dress up or spends hours on her hair and makeup. He didn't try to shower her in compliments or try to get her into bed. She was just content on spending time with him, and she hoped he felt the same way.

"So...what was it?" Russell finally asked.

"Nothing. He was doing some research, I just went along with him," Emily said, becoming more and more flustered by their pertinent gaze. "He's...Well, he's a friend."

"Said the princess of the frog." Rose muttered.

"Oh please," Emily chastised, returning to her station. "There's nothing fairytale about it."

"You would be so boring." Russell said, returning to the back office with a shrug.

"Boring?!" Emily repeated, watching him go with sparks in her eyes. "I'm boring?"

"A little bit, hon." Juliet agreed, not bothering to look up from her work.

"Jules!" Emily yelped aghast.

"No," Rose interjected, with a motherly smile. "You're not boring, Em. It's just...Well, you haven't had anything close to a relationship since Ben. And that was almost seven years ago! Really, when was the last time you did anything fun outside of work with someone other than Juliet or Jess? We're happy! We want to see you get out there."

"Even if it's just a library date with a hobo." Russell called from the back.

"One more word about hobo's or libraries or dates and I will stick you in the oven, Russell!" Emily called back, grabbing a wooden spoon from the counter and pointing it at him.

"There," Juliet proclaimed, stepping back from the freshly finished cookie. "Just...35 more cookies to go! Right?"

Emily smiled, thankful for the reprieve. She dusted her hands with fresh flour and started up on the last of the dough.

* * *

Outside, the night air was thin and cold. Snow had fallen steadily throughout the day. The streets, cleared by machines, resembled black mirrors, reflecting the lingering lights of storefronts long since closed. Taxi's slunk up and down the slick roads searching for late evening fairs, but the sidewalks were close to empty. Far above them, perched at the corner of brownstone, a man stood looking more gargoyle than human.

He felt at ease up high, it was a vantage point he knew well. No one could surprise him here. He watched as shadows passed slowly by down below. Some were huddled together, others walked alone. They shuffled through the snow like black blobs eager to escape the steadily dropping temperatures and return to the warmth of their homes. Soon enough their numbers began to dwindle from a few dozen down to just a handful.

He sighed. Heavily and long. Once again he had turned up nothing of consequence in his research. All he had to show for a day's work was a headache. And one single truth. He was not who he once was. He had been tampered with. Body and mind. After being pulled from a snowy mountain side, he had been experimented on. Toyed with. Like a rat in a lab. The more he discovered about the person he was, James Buchanan Barnes, the more clear it became...

He could never go back. That person had been chipped away. A new one had been hammered in. The damage was too great to repair.

And now...now he existed in a new state. Someone different from James Buchanan Barnes. Someone different from The Winter Soldier.

He was...who was he?

 _Jamie._ He thought. _Or...Bucky. Or...someone else._

As the days went on, as questions piled up unanswered and uncategorized, temptation grew stronger. There was still one place he hadn't looked. A vault of information leaked to the public by the duplicitous Black Widow prompting the discovery and fall of Hydra. There was no doubt, the answers he sought would be there. Most likely, however, they were buried under a mass of encryption and falsehoods made to distract and mislead. To attempt such research would be akin to searching for a single drop of water in a rolling wave.

It was risky. Tremendously so. He couldn't be sure who else was attempting to mine the data. And he was no hacker. He was a soldier. He couldn't conduct a search in hiding. Any attempt at locating and deciphering could mean an end to his carefully procured anonymity. Which meant it wasn't a risk worth taking. Not now.

Besides...he had more pressing matters that needed his attention.

Though the day had felt long, in truth he had lost a great deal of it to another blackout. Hours of time were lost. The watch wrapped around his wrist only served to remind him of how shaky his grip on reality was. One moment, it would read 9:30am and then, in what felt like a blink, he would check again and it would read 2pm. The gap of time in between was a mystery to him. The blackouts had grown more frequent and he now had reason to suspect that they were linked to his past. But as with so many things in his life, he couldn't be sure. Blackness would consume his vision overwhelm his senses until they shut down; one by one. He could do nothing but yield to a sudden and deep sleep. Deep, but not restful. When he woke, he felt more exhausted than before. Exhausted and empty-headed. Try as he might, he couldn't remember what had caused the loss of consciousness. There was no memory of a dream. Just silence. And blackness.

There was a time, not long ago, when he welcomed the rush and ensuing darkness. It meant peace. It quieted the raucous commotion that taunted him everything living second he had the capacity to think. But he had come too far and the seemingly consisting rise in frequency was beginning to frighten him. He had been fortunate for too long. It was only a matter of time before one came at an inopportune moment. And he was helpless to stop it.

A small pinging sound drew him away from his dower thoughts. He cast his eyes on the street. His brow went up.

_Emily._

She was exiting the bakery, followed by another woman. The pair wrapped their arms around each other for a quick second and then parted ways; Emily heading in the direction of her apartment.

He raised his right arm, looking down at his watch. It was after 10 o'clock. Just as it thought, it was well past closing time.

 _It's late._ He thought, once again eyeing the streets below. Try as he might, he couldn't understand why seeing her out at such a strange hour made him anxious. But, as with many of his instincts, although he didn't understand the thought, he knew something had to be done about it. With the silence of a bar owl, he jumped from the rooftop and landed in the alleyway below.

He exited the alley just in time to see her enter the market across the road. Swallowing, he followed her inside.

Though the market was kept cool to best care for the food inside, it felt warm compared to the chilly night air outside. Adjusting his cap, he stepped down the first aisle searching for her. It wasn't until he reached the fourth aisle that he saw her. He stopped, stepping backwards to shield his body and peered around the corner.

She was looking up towards the top shelf with a determined but troubled look present on her face. He watched her half confused, half amused as she tried and failed to reach something. After several attempts at jumping brought her no closer, she attempted to climb the bottom shelf to gain more height. From his vantage point, it was clear she would never be able to reach the top shelf on her own.

Stepping out from around the corner, he approached her cautiously.

"Hello." He said softly, hoping not to startle her.

She whirled her head around, "Oh! Jamie, Hi."

"Do you need-"

"Oh." She flushed, looking down. "Do I need help?"

 _I must look ridiculous._ Emily thought, as she clung to the shelving unit.

"Well," She said, lowering herself back down to the tiled floor carefully. "Yes, actually. They always put the pumpkin on the top shelf."

She stepped aside and he took her place, reaching up to grab at the cans above.

Emily watched him, her brow furrowing. She knew better than most the distinct look of a hungry person. She had seen enough of them walk through her doors. The harsh fluorescent lights highlighted the dark circles under his eyes and the almost yellow pallor of his cheeks. It had only been a few days since her last conversation with him.

 _Something tells me he didn't quite take it to heart._ She thought.

He lowered his arm, offering her the can she needed.

"Thank you," She said, with a smile.

He just nodded, returning his hands to his pockets.

"Why don't you let me return the favor?" She said, depositing the can in her basket.

"Sorry?" He said, not understanding.

"You look like you could use a good meal."

His eyes flickered. "Oh no-"

"Nonsense." Emily said, ignoring his protests and looping her arm through his. "I've had a corn and potato chowder steaming in a crockpot all afternoon and I can't eat it on my own. I just need to check out."

* * *

While Emily felt most at home bustling around the bakery, she couldn't deny her deep felt affection for her apartment on Henry Street. It had belonged to her Great Aunt Annabelle who had lived in it for over fifty years. After her passing, she had left the property to her nieces and nephews having never bore any offspring of her own. Instead of selling the space, the Cole children had chosen to keep it in the family. After the untimely passing of Emily's parents, she and her brother sold the house. Her brother moved across the bay, she moved into 183 #12 Henry Street.

She invited Jamie in with a welcoming smile. She couldn't remember the last time she had greeted a guest that wasn't related to her by blood.

 _For once in my life I'm not nervous about it either._ She thought. _It's just as I told them. He's a friend._

"This way," she said, leading him down the short entry hall and into the living room.

Jamie followed cautiously. His height and girth made the journey down the narrow hall somewhat awkward. He scanned the rooms with a strategists eyes, quickly locating each potential exit. They had climbed up two sets of stairs, meaning they were now on the third floor. If necessary, a jump from a window wouldn't end in any fractured bones.

The walls in the hallway were covered with old pictures that must have spanned close to a century. Pictures of Cole Family and the bakery throughout the years filled an array of frames each one a different shape and size. Emily's favorite was a shot of her mother and sisters when they were only teenagers. The three girls were dressed in matching pastel colors, smiling wide and displaying their new summer outfits in front of the bakery. At the end, sat the very first picture taken only weeks after the bakery had opened. Her ancestors, immigrants and newly married, stood side by side, in front of the building hands clasped together. A hand-painted sign, one that still hung in the back of the kitchen, had just been installed above the storefront.

In between work and time spent with family, Emily had dedicated her time to updating the little one bedroom. She had first taken to the kitchen, eager to modernize the cramped space as best she could. It sat just off entry hallway. It was narrow, unable to accommodate even two bodies standing side by side; just barely wide enough to account for an open fridge or oven door. After scrubbing down the cabinetry and painting them over in a crisp eggshell white, she had acquired new hardware from a wholesale shop. She had sanded down and resealed the maple wood countertops just last spring. Now, Emily was saving up for a new oven, one that could keep up with her constant tinkering, and a tile back splash. A she had an entire pinterest page devoted to options she coveted, some from the blanched white kitchens of Greece, others from tiny apartments in Paris and even the occasional swedish studio. A small half moon table and two cafe chairs sat at the end of the kitchen, centered against a window that looked out onto the street. On particularly hot summer days, Emily would slip up onto the table and duck through the window to sit out on the fire escape and watch passersby.

The hallway emptied into a small living area. An old (yet still miraculously functioning) fireplace sat in the corner next to a window. Emily had left this room relatively untouched; it still sported her aunt's couch, love seat, bookshelves and coffee table. The only addition was a small television set to the left of the fireplace in view of the sofa.

"You sit here," Emily directed, gesturing to the couch. "I'll be right back."

She left for the kitchen after turning on an overhanging light and lamp.

Jamie complied without a word. Unsure of what to do, he listened to her fiddle around in the kitchen. He couldn't remember a time he had been in such a place. A clean, well kept place. She returned, balancing two bowls on a small tray in one hand. Carefully she set it down on the coffee table and took a seat in the chair next to the couch.

"I hope you like it." She said.

Emily picked up the remote and turned on the television. It lit up, revealing a pair of expertly styled reporters dishing out the day's news.

Just then, Emily's phone jolted to life, grinding against the table. She jumped, not expecting a call.

"It's my brother." She said, picking it up. "Excuse me…"

She set her bowl down on the coffee table and exited to the kitchen.

Jamie watched her go and then turned his attention to his own bowl. Heat seeped through the ceramic, warming his hand. Whatever it was, it had an extremely fragrant scent. He could feel his stomach quaking as he reached for his spoon.

* * *

"You're calling late." Emily said cheerily. For some reason she was bubbling with nerves.

_If Elijah knew I had a strange man in my house, he'd throw a fit._

"Rose texted me and said you finished up." Elijah said. "Just wanted to make sure you made it home."

Emily rolled her eyes. Her brother never did like the city. He had chosen to leave the moment an opportunity presented itself. And, after marrying his college sweetheart, he had made his home across the bay in a clean little suburb with a charming main street and honored school system. He only made journeys out to the city once or twice a month, to deal with business and to attend the monthly Sunday night family dinner held at Rose's place. He had tried on multiple occasions to coax her away from the 'dangerous' streets. But she was more than content with where she was.

"How's the family?" Emily asked, opening her fridge and peering inside.

"Everyone's good here." Elijah said. "...Are you going tomorrow?"

Emily frowned. _He never was one for pleasantries, just like dad._

"Yes," She responded carefully. "Aren't you?"

"Sorry, Em," Her brother said; though he didn't sound it. "Back to School Night. Heather volunteered us to help with setup."

"Oh," Emily said, her frown growing longer. "But...you are going to go sometime soon?"

"Yeah," Elijah said. "I'll make it out there."

"Then I'll go with you." Emily said, quickly. "When you go."

She could here Elijah sighing on the other line. She shut the fridge and turned towards the window and began to pace, nervous energy growing in her chest.

"Someone should be there tomorrow don't you think?" He said, finally.

Emily bit down on her lip. He was right. Elijah was always right.

"Yeah," She relented. "I know."

"I'm sorry I can't be there." He continued. "But I've already told the kids-"

"No, it's okay." Emily said. "I'll go. I can borrow Rose's car."

"Thanks, Em," Elijah said.

"MmmHmm" Emily mumbled, grabbing the tea kettle from the stove and setting it down in the sink.

"Goodnight." Elijah said.

"Night." Emily said.

She set the phone down on the counter and waited for the water to fill up the kettle. She caught sight of her own morose reflection in the shiny stainless steel.

 _I've never gone by myself before._ She thought, the nervous bubbles growing heavier and heavier.

* * *

"...Thank you, Andrea. Up next, mourners gathered at the Pendleton base in San Diego, California. Today marks the 50th Anniversary of the shocking attack that left several high ranking officers dead. Generals Jonathan Anderson and Matthew Platt Sr. were found shot-"

Stilled by the reporters cool and concise speech, Jamie looked up. He knew those names.

Pictures of two men flashed on the screen as the reporter continued on. Jamie's heart sunk. He knew those faces.

"No…" He mumbled. He jolted to his feet, the bowl slipping from his grip and clattering on to the table. The ringing in his head growing louder. Someone was speaking to him in a language other than English. But...which one?

Every thread in his body was begging him to run, but he couldn't focus his vision. He stepped forward, realizing far too late that he needed to leave. His shins slamming into a low table sending him toppling over it.

He heard Emily calling from the kitchen. "Jamie?"

 _No._ He thought again, remembering where he was. _Not here._ _ **Not now**_ _._

But it was too late. There was nothing he could do to stop the onslaught of black. Pressure built in his head until it was too much to stand. Just as his legs gave way, consciousness left him.

He was gone.


	6. Ghosts

_Where am I?_

All he could see was a blurred mass of lucid gray light. Like he was staring at a screen, waiting for...something. Orders maybe, a sign, a sound…

He had blacked out again. This time it was different. At least, the waking up felt different. He wasn't use to seeing grey, to seeing light. The ceiling he knew was not tinged with natural colors. Normally he woke to shadow or the orange tinted glare of the single light that hung at the room's center. Usually he would have to step outside to properly identify the time of day.

But this was morning light. He was sure of it.

So...perhaps he wasn't facing his ceiling.

No, no he was on his back. He couldn't be certain of it at first, but as his consciousness cleared, her could feel the pull of gravity and the unmistakable sensation of a hard surface jutting up at his shoulder. Wherever he was, he wasn't lying flat and he was far from comfortable.

All he could do was wait for the numbness to ebb and hope he was in a safe place. That and muse over his lost memories. As with the other times, he had no idea what had caused this one. Was it a flashback? A name? A voice overheard? Or maybe it was a simple lack of care on his part. Had he forgotten to eat again? Had sleep eluded him for too long?

No, it wasn't food he needed. He was thirsty, but not dangerously so.

He blinked rapidly, trying to sharpen his vision. He could feel cool air on his forehead and his throat was dry. He sensed a lump under his shoulder. Wherever he was, he was certain to be feeling the aches and pains throughout the day. If he ever managed to recover. Slowly, his vision became clearer. The strange ceiling was high, much higher than any he could remember. He lifted his head slightly and groaned at the painfully stiff response of his muscles. In the corners of the ceiling he could make out detailed patterns. So it was an old house. Abandoned, maybe? Groaning, he pulled himself into a sitting position. The motion, though slow and calculated, caused his head to spin. He caught it in his hands, rubbing deftly at his temples in hopes of coaxing the pain away.

He glanced at the carpeted floor.

_Carpeted?_

He had no memory of this place. At least, he had no memory of carpet. He drew his head up again and surveyed the room.

It was a shambles. An overturned bookcase lay just to the right of his feet. Books were scattered about, some open, some bent, one ripped. A low table lay three or four feet away, it's legs pointed to the ceiling. Its contents, which included two bowls a small tray and a now shattered glass vase, had spilled onto the floor. A large, tall window at the wall's center was cracked open; it's thin, cotton curtain was torn and swayed gently in the icy breeze that billowed in from outside.

He shifted his attention to the left, rubbing at his sore neck and hoping that something, anything would jog a memory and help him to-

He froze, his eyes landing on a large chair that was placed next to the couch he occupied.

He was not alone.

_Emily._

She was curled up on the couch, a blanket resting over her shoulders. Her arms were folded over the arm of the couch and her head was buried her sweater, now acting as a makeshift pillow.

Only then did he remember. He had seen her that night.

_Somewhere...with bright lights. The market. And I went with her. To…_

He surveyed the room again. What little color was left drained from his face.

 _This must be her home._ He thought, _I blacked out. Here. But, what-what did I do?_

His heartbeats were coming so quickly he feared they would overwhelm his system and he would black out again. He tried to stand up, but his body wouldn't respond. His legs were entirely beyond his control. All he could manage to do was sit up.

A blanket he hadn't realized was there slipped down his shoulder and pooled in his lap. He looked down at it and reached for it, clutching it with-

...With his prosthetic fingers.

The metal glinted against the soft light, a disruption to the illusion of peace. His eyes went wide and he had to stop himself from crying out. He stared at it in disbelief. It couldn't be true, he was so careful. He _had_ been so careful. His jacket and his glove were both gone. His shirt and hoodie were pulled up past his elbow. His arm exposed.

_She's seen it._ _**She's seen me.** _

He looked toward Emily again, feeling colder now than ever before. He knew what he had to do. Instinct was screaming at him to get on with it already. He would have to leave. Hop a train out of the city and find a new place to hide. It was the only option now that his cover was blown. He didn't know what information had been presented to the public regarding his past life, but even the smallest of details could mean hell.

He tried again to stand, but his joints fought in protest.

 _What do I do?_ He lamented.

Suddenly, a blaring melody erupted in the small room. Emily's phone, which was resting on the arm of the chair directly in front of her face, buzzed to life. After the tune's third succession, she groaned and lifted her hand from under the blanket in search of the off button. After gripping the phone, she lifted her head up and a wave of scrunched hair fell into her face. Once the phone was silenced, she yawned and rose clumsily into a sitting position.

He watched her warily, begging his mind to reveal some idea of what had happened when he blacked out. But nothing came. She pushed her hair out of her face, staring at the screen with tired eyes. The faint light that it was emitting bounced back to her face highlighting the dark circles under her eyes. She ran her thumb and fingers across the screen for several seconds.

When she did finally look up, she gasped and leapt from the chair.

"Oh, Jamie-" She stuttered, rounding the far arm and standing behind it. He knew what she was doing, even though she likely couldn't explain it. She was creating distance, using the chair as a barrier between them. An instinctive play at protection. Protection from him.

It wasn't until then that the terrible thought occurred to him. He had made a mess of the room, that he could see. But...what if that wasn't the end of it? What if his episode had triggered something far more sinister than some overturned furniture? What if he had hurt her?

His nerves spiraled into a wave of guilt so strong he thought he would keel over again.

"You're awake." She said, clutching the blanket tightly around her shoulders. She was still dressed in the clothes she had been wearing the night before. She was clearly afraid.

_But why? What did I do?_

"I'm sorry, so sorry" She continued, her eyes darting in every direction except that of his own. "I-I took off your jacket. You're, well, you were feverish and I thought...I thought-"

As if sensing the escalating tension, her phone buzzed again and once more erupted into song. Emily jolted with it, almost losing her grip on the slim, slippery frame. It took her a moment to hit the correct buttons and bring a complete stop to the sound.

"I need to go to work." She said in a whisper, still refusing to look him in the eye.

 _Say something._ He thought. _Anything._

"Excuse me," Emily mumbled hurriedly. She shuffled around the overturned table and into another room.

He looked at the floor, his head seemed to be whirling but he couldn't put together a concrete thought. He tried once more to stand, and almost made it to his feet, but he head was spinning with such ferocity that he had to sit again. Black spots popped before his eyes, each one varying in size and speed. His entire body felt heavy. Heavy and empty all at once.

Not ten minutes later she returned, dressed in slim black jeans, a gray-knit sweater, collared blouse and black boots. Her purse was slung over her right shoulder. She still clutched her phone tightly in one hand. In the other, she held a red scarf. Her navy coat was draped across her arm. She had gathered her hair into another high knot at the top of her head. But there was something different about her.

"You wear glasses." He said, unable to stop himself from vocalizing the realization. He regretted it immediately. 

Emily, too, seemed momentarily stumped by his comment. But she recovered herself and nodded.

"I prefer contacts." She said, "Glasses make me look like a teacher or a librarian or someone's mom. But when I'm tired, the contacts are really uncomfortable."

As she spoke she pushed the frames up her nose. His eyesight now fully sharpened, he could see that her hands were shaking.

He watched her turn away from him and wrap the scarf around her neck, adjusting it against her reflection in a small circular mirror that hung on the wall above her television.

 _You can't let her leave._ It was not his voice, but a different one. An deeper, darker instinct buried in the more muddied recesses of his brain. A virus. Something implanted into him. He wanted desperately to ignore it. _What if she tells someone. Calls the authorities. I can't allow that._

"Emily, I-" He began, his voice thick. He rose up, his full height and girth painfully obvious in the cramped apartment. 

"I-I have to go." She said in a squeak, nearly tripping over the table in an attempt to reach the hallway. Before he could stop her, she disappeared and he heard the unmistakable sound of a door opening.

He froze up again, instinct trumped by shame. It was one thing to see the signs of her terror, but to hear it in her voice; a voice that had been so cheery and welcoming and calmed his own restlessness...

He slumped back down onto the sofa, his head falling into his hands.

_I...can't. I can't do it._

He knew what he would've done if she were a stranger. It would've been quick. Quiet. Done in a way that left no mark or bloodstain. No struggle even. There would have been no time for words, no hesitation. No chance of escape. She would have been lost to the world before even having a chance to comprehend what was happening.

But she wasn't a stranger. She was...she was Emily. Whatever that meant. He couldn't bear the thought of hurting her let alone- let alone ending her life.

His mind was a hurricane. He had never before fought his instincts with such fervor. At least he couldn't remember a time in which he had. Voices multiplied begging him to act, to protect himself and his mission.

_But I don't have a mission. And, I don't need to be protected._

She was frightened. Rightfully so. He wouldn't fault her for going to the police and reporting him. 

"Jamie?"

He looked up, startled to hear her voice. At first he believed he had just imagined it in a pathetic attempt to calm himself. He was sure she had fled. But sure enough, she was standing at the end of the hall, peering around the wall. As she spoke, she fiddled with the frayed end of her scarf.

"You have a fever, I think," She said, only just loud enough for him to hear. "You should rest here. Get some more sleep. I'm not working a full day today. There's somewhere I have to go and um, I think we should talk...about what happened."

 _ **What**_ _happened?_ He thought, desperate to ask her.

"So, go back to sleep you can even use my bed if the couch is too small. It's just through that door behind you," She said. "And, uh, then could you meet me at the bakery? Around 2pm…"

He nodded.

"Good," She breathed. "Okay. If you wake up early, my fridge is full of food and you're welcome to it and I'll see you then. At two."

She flashed two of her fingers and then smiled. It seemed genuine, but there was still apprehension in her eyes.

She left then and he heard the door slip shut behind her. He looked around the small apartment, at the mess his row had caused.

_**What did I do?** _

* * *

Hours passed before he had the strength to stand and walk. He couldn't focus his thoughts long enough to come up with a decent plan. All he knew was that he needed to run. The details would have to wait. He stepped over the table to retrieve his jacket. A sickening crack punctured the silence. Looking down he realized his boot had landed on one of Emily's bowls, shattering it. Reaching down, he picked up the four pieces. A fine white dust shook free of the fractured pieces and fell to the floor like snow.

 _Another broken life_. He thought, unable to take his eyes off of them. He carried the pieces into the kitchen and deposited them in the sink, unsure of what else to do.

How many attempts to rebuild had he made now? It had only been five or six months since the downfall of Hydra, but in that time he had done nothing but collect failures. Now he would have to try again. In some new city far away from here. Gripping the counter, he bowed his head and considered his options. There were still places he could go; countries and governments far too concerned with their wealth and well being. He could slip across borders unnoticed fairly easily.

_But if I stayed..._

It was foolish. Foolish before and foolish now, but for the first time he was hesitant to leave.

Here in Brooklyn, he still had a chance at understanding his history. Aside from Europe, there were no ties for him to uncover anywhere else. Here, there were traces of family, links to a life he needed to know and...Emily.

Emily was here.

 _Damn it._ He thought. She was not the first civilian he had made contact with. There had been the doctor in Prague. And the waitress in Alberta. But those encounters had been quick and meaningless in hindsight. He knew the dangers of it, he knew what it would mean to become reliant on others. Sure enough, he had ignored all the warning signs and now he found his anonymity at risk. A swift exit was the only option.

_But I don't want it. I don't want to go._

Emily had remembered him, looked after him, fed him and cared for him. He couldn't remember a time when someone had treated him in such a way. She had never looked at him with judgement or fear. She had opened her home to him.

_And I returned her with...this._

He returned to the living room, cringing at the sight of his destructive path.

Like a ghost he shuffled silently around the room, righting furniture and searching for small shards of broken glass. He focused on the work, blocking out his worries and sense of time. After all was complete, he looked at his watch. 1 o'clock.

He surveyed the room. It wasn't perfect. He couldn't fix the vase. There was water stain on the carpet where the flowers had fallen. One of her books was now missing several pages and there was a gash in the table the size of a quarter. But other than that-

_A book._

He caught sight of it under the sofa. Bending down he pulled it out and flipped it over. It was thicker than the other books he had already placed on the shelves. The cover was bound in navy leather and the title was embossed in silver.

 _Cole's Corner Bakery 1925 - 1935_.

He pried open the front cover. It wasn't a book, but an album of pictures. Each page was filled with photos flushed yellow with age. Under each one, handwritten notes were placed marking the names of those in the pictures and the year they were taken.

The first picture was noted as: _**Alice & Arthur, 1925. Opening day.**_

A man and woman, both flashing excited smiles, stood in front of the bakery.

He flipped through the photos, captivated. The storefront had not changed much since it's inception, but somehow seeing pictures of it from an earlier time, from his time, was like looking into a mirror.

Soon, pictures of customers grew more prominent. He tried not to hope, but each page turn became more urgent. Holidays and other moments of note were marked. Christmas, Easter, Halloween, Anniversaries and finally...

**Mother's Day. 1928.**

The picture at the bottom of the right page was the largest. At it center, Alice could be seen standing behind the counter. In front of the counter, on either side of the shop owner, two women stood posing with two boys. He stilled, running his fingers over the script on the bottom of the page.

_**Sarah & Steve (left) Winnie & Bucky (right)** _

The woman on the left was tall and lean, with light hair and a large smile. The boy with her was hopelessly slim and short. He wore an uneasy grin and held tightly to his mother's hand. It was the man on the bridge. Steve Rogers. The man who claimed to know him. Here, just a boy, but he recognized the eyes instantly. 

He turned his attention to the other two people in the photo. The woman, Winnie, was leaning down, her arms wrapped around the boy's neck. Her hair was dark and expertly coifed in the style of the time. She wore a dress under a stylish coat. The boy wrapped in her gentle embrace sported a mop of dark hair and an easy, lopsided grin.

_That's...me._

He stared at the boy who looked just as strange as the other faces in the photos. How could it be him? He had no memory of this woman. No memory of the boy name Steve. Or the woman named Sarah. And yet, somehow he knew. He knew.

* * *

Even though the morning crowds were moving quickly through the line, Emily was starting to think her shift would never end. Normally, Turkey day was one of her favorite's but she was far too distracted to enjoy it. A line of customers, each one having reserved their order last week, stretched out the door and down the block.

 _What I need is more coffee._ She thought, handing off another box. _And a nap._

"Hello deary," the next customer greeted.

"Mrs. Heaton, Hello." Emily said, forcing another welcoming grin. It had been difficult to keep up a cheery facade. But she wasn't worried about the customers. If her family noticed something was off, she would never hear the end of it.

"My dear, were you up all night?" The older woman said.

"Yes, ma'am." Emily said, handing over her order. "Is it that easy to tell?"

"I'm afraid so," Mrs. Heaton said, searching her coin purse for the correct change count. "You should invest in a good night cream. I know you're not an old maid like me, but the earlier you start the more grateful you'll be."

"I'll keep that in mind." Emily said, depositing the change in to the register.

"Thank you, deary. My grandkids just love these things."

"I'm glad." Emily said, hoping her exhaustion came off as wistful.

"Happy Holidays," Mrs. Appleby said. "Tell your cousins I said hello."

"I will." Emily said, waving goodbye.

"You want me to take a turn, Emi?"

Emily turned around. "Jess! Hello, yes, if you wouldn't mind."

"Sure," Her youngest cousin said, taking Emily's place at the register.

Unable to stop herself, Emily glanced up at the clock on the wall. _Still twenty minutes to go._

"I'll go get more boxes," she said to no one in particular.

She stepped into the kitchen, adjusting the straps of her apron as she maneuvered past the other employees.

With so many customers to care for, the kitchen was empty. The baking team was always given the morning off during the cookie sale. The silence was stark in comparison to the hustle and chatter in the storefront. So much so, her ears began to ring.

 _I should've stayed out there._ She thought, _Now that my mind's free to wander…_

Memories of the previous night began to play in her head. She sat up on a stool by the corner lockers, and rested her elbows on a table. She rubbed at the skin under her eyes, careful not to muss her makeup. Her eyes turned to the back wall, again searching for a clock.

 _1:35..._ She thought. It hadn't occurred to her until that moment that he may not come. The thought made her anxious all over again. _What if he just leaves? What if I never see him again? That would be-_

"Emily?"

_-terrible. What was I thinking? I shouldn't have left him alone. Alone in my own apartment! I should've...called in sick. I should've stayed._

"Em."

_No, I guess...if I had called in sick someone would've come to check on me and then what?_

"Emily!"

Emily felt a hand on her shoulder, shaking her lightly.

"Hmmm?" She said turning.

It was Rose.

"Didn't you hear me?" She said, an amused smile on her freckled face.

"Oh...no." Emily said, yawning. "Sorry I was-"

"Distracted?" Rose finished.

"Yeah."

"I know." Rose nodded, squeezing her shoulder.

Emily went pale. "Y-You know?"

"Elijah called," Rose explained. "He asked if you could borrow my car."

"Oh," Emily said, relief flooding her veins. "Yeah."

"I can't believe he isn't going with you." Rose continued, taking up the stool next to Emily. "I know you don't like it, but I gave him a piece of my mind. If you want me or Russell to come along, I could call one of the part timers. Unless...everyone's already here. Is everyone here? I should pay more attention to the schedule."

"No, no it's okay." Emily said, gathering every last bit of pep she had in her. Rose had always been prone to worrying. In the time since her parents passing, she had tried to fill the maternal void that was missing in Emily's life. Emily had always appreciated the efforts, but now that she had a secret to hide, she had to be careful not to give anything way.

"Emily, you shouldn't have to go alone." Rose said.

"I'm not." Emily responded. She regretted it immediately. "I don't think…"

"I thought Juliet was working today." Rose said, brow furrowing.

"I asked Jamie if he would come." Emily relented, unable to think up another name. "He's supposed to meet me here soon."

"Supposed to?" Rose repeated. "Do you think he won't show?"

Nothing, absolutely nothing, got past Rose's keen eyes and ears. 

"I'm not sure." She admitted, ducking her head.

"Emily, is everything alright?" Rose persisted. "Did something happen?"

 _When will I learn to be a good liar?_ Emily lamented, feeling more and more flustered.

"No, nothing." She said, floundering for the words that would put Rose off. "It's just...it's been seven years now. I can't believe it."

Rose stood from her seat and wrapped her arms around Emily. "I know, honey. We can't believe it either."

Emily felt her eyes grow hot. She had only said it to distract Rose, but the sentiment behind it had been true. And only just now did she realize what it meant. It _had_ been seven years.

 _Seven years._ Emily thought. _Seven birthdays, seven Christmases...all without them._

She wrapped her arms around Rose's waist, letting her cheek fall on her cousin's shoulder.

"Thanks, Rose." Emily says, fighting back tears. She felt Rose's hand on her back, moving gently up and down.

"Emily?"

Rose and Emily separated and looked up. Russell stood in the doorway.

"Jamie's here."

Emily felt both relief and apprehension rush through her. She wiped at her eyes and smiled in an attempt to appease her family.

"Thanks, I'll be right out."

"I'll get my keys." Rose said with a supportive smile.

Emily slid off the stool and began to undo the apron ties at the small of her back. After storing her apron, she strung her bag over her shoulder and wrapped her scarf around her neck.

"It's parked around the corner." Rose said, appearing behind her and handing over her keys. "Drive safe, okay?"

Emily nodded. "I will."

She stepped out of the kitchen, slipping her arms into her coat as she went. Nerves began bubbling up in her chest. She purposefully kept her eyes trained low, unsure of where exactly he was.

 _At least he's here._ She thought. _But...god, I didn't even think about it. What do I say?_

She considered grabbing two cups of coffee to take on the road, knowing full well she could use another gallon or so of caffeine. But coffee seemed too stimulating. Switching gears, she grabbed to take away cups, two sleeves of herbal tea and combined them with steaming hot water. After balancing the two cups in the crook of her arm, she waved goodbye to the staff and then stepped outside.

He was standing off to the right under the store sign, his back to her.

"Hi, Jamie." She said softly, not wanting to startle him.

"Emily."

Unsure of what else to say, she handed him one of the cups.

"Let's go."

* * *

Living so close to work and family, Emily never had the need to purchase a car of her own. She was fortunate to know several people who were fairly generous with theirs. She liked Rose's car more than the others. It was older SUV, but it had height, something that illuded most aspects of Emily's life. When she drove it, she felt as though she had a different perspective on the roads and cars around her. When she drove her brother's car, a small but sensible sedan, she felt like a child that shouldn't be behind a wheel.

After stepping up and into the car, she unlocked the passenger door. Jamie stepped in. It was only then that she felt a wave of fear wash over her. Was it foolish to get in a car with him? A small hunk of metal that, once in motion, bore no easy escape route? Visions of her living room flashed through her head. The overturned bookshelf. The cracked bowl. The broken table. The screaming.

Emily swallowed, gripping the steering wheel. She hoped she didn't look as frightened as she felt. Jamie may have been quiet, but he was also observant.

Cautiously, she looked over at him. He held the to go cup in one hand, staring intently at it. He looked a bit flushed and the deep, dark circles under his eyes were beginning to look more like permanent fixtures rather than the result of one bad night's sleep.

 _He doesn't look dangerous._ She thought. _Not even a little bit. Not even after last night._

"How are you feeling?" She asked in a whisper.

He sighed. He had hoped the walk to the bakery would jog his memory, or at least give him enough time to prepare answers for any questions she likely had. Unfortunately, the walk hadn't helped either cause. He could hardly remember the journey. He was existing in a haze, and had been since that disastrous day in Washington.

Emily pulled one glove from her hand and reached over to gently ran the backs of her fingers over his forehead. He started, but she didn't pull away. Her fingers felt icy cold against his skin, but he let his eyes fall shut. Whatever fear lingered in her, it wasn't enough to deter her.

"Well…" She said, after a minute. "your fever's gone down a bit. That's good."

"Emily-" He began.

"Before you say anything." Emily interjected. "There's something I want to show you first. If-if that's okay."

He was almost thankful. He knew what he wanted to communicate, but no way to do so. A simple apology seemed too insignificant. And he certainly couldn't tell her the truth. It was best then, if she did all of the talking.

"Yeah." He said.

Emily pulled back and turned the key in the ignition, starting up the car.

* * *

The drive was quiet. Neither one of them had any idea what to say. After nearly a half hour, Emily pulled off the highway and into a large gated driveway.

A sign, covered in snow, marked the location.

_Cypress Hills Cemetery_

After passing through the gate, Emily guided the car up a tree lined road. Winter had settled in nicely. The trees were stripped of their leaves, keeping their breed a mystery to all but the most passionate of horticulturalists. The grounds were covered in a thin layer of snow that had already begun to melt. On either side, waves of ivory stone blocks stood like statues. The only colors visible were spots of red and blue noted by small flags that had been placed before each stone.

Emily parked the car and the pair exited. She rounded the front, burying her hands in the pockets of her coat.

"I'm glad you came." She said, softly. "Grateful really."

He nodded.

"It's this way." She said, turning and stepping over the curb and down a small incline. He followed silently, two steps behind.

"Here." She said, stopping before one the blocks. He wondered in passing how she could tell. Each block looked the same to him. Were the snow even a hint of a shade darker, they would've blended in completely.

He looked down, reading the words that had been chiseled into the rock.

**First Sergeant**

**Robert "Bo" Barrett**

**1962 - 2007**

**Soldier. Husband. Father.**

It didn't take long to put the pieces together.

"Your father?" He asked.

Emily nodded solemnly. She stared intently at the stone for several minutes. The small flag implanted in the snow, quivered as a quiet breeze flew across the hillside.

She was grateful she did not have to come alone. Without Jamie, she wasn't entirely convinced she would have made the journey. Even now, she was fighting the urge to walk away. She had nothing to say here. Nothing that she had already attempted to say in years past.

"He was killed in action?"

Emily looked up at Jamie, surprised by the question. She shook her head.

"No," She said. "My mother had gone to pick him up from the airport after his last tour. He was granted early leave, to come home for the holidays. But...there was a storm and the freeways were icy. A truck overturned causing a pile up. 15 cars were caught up in it. 9 people were injured. 5 died. Including my parents."

She shivered against the icy winds.

"There's a bench under that tree there, do you want to sit?" She asked, gesturing behind her.

He nodded and followed her. She took a seat at the left end and he the right. They looked out on the grounds, neither daring to break the silence. The stones seemed to stretch for miles and miles.

 _This is a lonely place._ He thought. _Too quiet._

A chilling thought drifted through his head. Was there a slab of stone here that bore his name? It seemed possible. Was it accompanied by a similar string of words? He had no memory of being someone's husband or father. But he knew now that he had a mother. That made him...a son. Someone's son. And, if he was to believe his memories, he was someone's brother too.

"My mother is buried in another cemetery." Emily said, interrupting his thoughts. "Across the way, with my grandparents. If you don't mind, I need to go there too. After this."

He didn't respond. Emily leaned forward to look at him. He was looking down the hill at the line of stones as if her were hypnotized.

"You know, I can remember vividly the last time I saw my mother." She continued. "She went to pick him up from Laguardia. And before she left, she made sure I knew exactly how he liked his welcome home cake. A little underdone, with as thin a layer of frosting as possible."

Emily couldn't help but smile at the memory. She had of course known exactly how to fix the cake, but her mother's constant worrying and fretting always took the form of little lectures on technique. As a teenager, Emily had abhorred the constant gentle nitpicking. Only now in hindsight was she grateful for her mother's care and attention. It had helped her become skilled at her craft early on.

 _To this day, I still rely on those little notes and lessons._ Emily thought.

"She told me that as she was wrapping up her scarf." Emily continued. "Then she hugged me and kissed my forehead. I told her to drive safe and that I loved her. She said she loved me, too. I'm glad for that."

She swallowed, staring at her hands folded in her lap. Were they not encased in red knit gloves, she wouldn't started picking at her nails in hopes of placating the anxious energy that had begun to bubble up in her stomach. She had told this story only once before, knowing full well how it sounded to other people. After telling Juliet, she had vowed to never tell it again. But something deep inside her was urging her to do so. Somehow, for some reason, she knew Jamie needed to hear it.

"But my father? I can't remember what it was I said to him when he left." She paused. "It was his sixth tour and he was to be stationed in Afghanistan for eight months. June to February. His last tour had been sixth months and he had only just returned. I think I was angry with him. He was always leaving us. Going off to war, even though by then it wasn't required of him. But he had tried his hand at so many other jobs and failed. He told my brother once that being a soldier was the only thing he understood. I was only 21 then. I didn't understand what had happened to my father. I think I do now."

She stopped, swallowing and wiping at the corner of her eye.

"He first enlisted when I was 13. I cried and cried when he left. I wrote him letters every week. I dreamed often about him returning. How good it would be to have him back. But...when he did return, he wasn't the same person. He stepped off the plane and everything about him was different. He hugged me and called me by my nickname, but it wasn't right. He wouldn't look us in the eye. We got home and he went to bed and slept and ate and watched tv and went on long walks by himself. He barely spoke to us. And when he did he stumbled over his words like he was nervous of saying something wrong. It was like another person was renting in our house. He was a stranger and I felt like I didn't know him. My own father."

She looked up and saw that he was watching her carefully.

"Something happened on that first tour. Something that changed him. He never spoke about it, not to me, not my brother, not even my mother. We knew that he had been injured, but it wasn't serious. Some burns on his forearms. Compared to others...it wasn't bad. We thought maybe he had had enough. For a while he talked about joining the National Guard. But then he signed up for another tour. And another and another. So when he signed up again...I was just fed up. It was like he didn't want to be around us. His own family. I don't remember if I even hugged him before he walked out the door for the last time. I certainly didn't cry."

"It was selfish of me. To react that way." She continued. "But...I think I was just scared. I lost my father long before he died. He seemed lost and confused on some days. On other days he would wander around the house muttering to himself. He had...terrible nightmares, he would wake the whole apartment with his screams. He was haunted by things that happened, things that he did. He didn't seek help no matter how often my mother begged him to. He just kept volunteering."

"Jamie," Emily said, finally looking him in the eye. "I'm telling you this because...because what happened last night, reminded me of all that. Do you...do you remember any of it?"

He looked down at the ground. "...No."

"Has something like this happened before?" She asked, gently.

"...Yes."

"Do you know why?"

He did know why. But how could he tell her? The truth was all he had. He wasn't in the right mind to craft a good lie. But perhaps...perhaps pieces of the truth would be enough. It was clear that she had brought him here for a reason. Her guess wasn't wrong, but it only brushed the surface.

"It's because of who I was." He said. The fingers of his artificial arm flexed instinctively.

Emily remained quiet. He realized she was waiting for him to continue, but he hadn't planned anything past that. What was he? _A weapon_. A highly skilled, expertly trained assassin. No, there too much there. What could he say? The words on her father's grave stone flashed in his mind's eye. 

"A soldier." He said, every thread of muscle in him tensing as he awaited her reaction. He looked at her then, wanting to read her face, unable to stand the wait. "Like...like your father."

She didn't say anything. She didn't even react aside from placing her right hand over his left. He wondered if she remembered what it was, a cold steel appendage. A human machination meant to destroy rather than protect.

"I wondered." She said, finally. Her thumb ran over his knuckles. He sensed her tense. "You were wounded, then?"

"Yes," He said, still unsure of her true feelings. "...A long time ago."

"I'm sorry." She said. "It must have been terrible."

"It still is." He said, bowing his head.

She pulled her hand away and stood up.

"Jamie-"

"It's Bucky." He said. "My name is Bucky."

Emily cocked her head to the side confused.

"I didn't tell you," He said, "Because when we met...I didn't know. I wasn't sure. There's a lot I don't know."

"So," Emily said. "When you said you were researching your family…"

"There's no one left." He said. "...no one alive anyway. And...after, after I was injured. I have difficulty remembering."

"Oh," Emily said, dropping down onto the bench again, this time much closer to him. She placed her hand on his back, gently rubbing it up and down.

"I'm so sorry...Bucky."

He closed his eyes and breathed out. A strange, airy relief filled him up.

_She said my name._

For the first time, it truly did sound like his name.

* * *

"Thank you for walking me home." Emily said, clutching the strap of her purse with both hands. She climbed the first three steps to her apartment and turned to look down at him. He stayed street side, feet planted firmly on the sidewalk, dodging her eyes.

Emily sighed. She had hoped her little speech would help ease his anxious mind. _There's no easy fix, though._ She understood that more than most. No doubt it would take some time before he would feel comfortable around her again. _And we had only just jumped that hurdle._

As she fretted over what else she could do, Bucky nodded and turned to leave.

"Wait," Emily called.

He stopped and turned back.

"I hope, um," She started, scrambling for the right words. "I hope this doesn't sound forward or meddling or anything but, I don't think you should be alone. If...if you don't want to be. So anytime you feel that way, you're always welcome here."

Bucky looked down, stuffed his hands into his pockets and seemed to consider her offer. Emily felt her heart hammering like a hummingbird. She hoped beyond hope that he wouldn't simply walk away. The thought of him running scared, that she may never see him again after they parted, was too terrible to bear.

"I never did get to try that soup." He mumbled, uncertainly.

Emily smiled wide, descended down to the first step in a flutter and wrapped her arms around his neck. It happened so quickly, Bucky nearly dodged her out of instinct. He felt frozen through at her sudden embrace, but after a moment he relaxed and hesitantly wrapped his real arm around her shoulders.

"No, I guess you didn't" She said with a relieved laugh. She released him then, an apologetic look in her bright blue eyes.

He preferred it. Seeing her so upset that morning had weighed heavily on him; he hadn't even realized it until now. Now that she was smiling again, he felt the guilt float away.

"Maybe…" He said.

"This weekend?" Emily finished, stepping back. "I'll be staying with my brother for Thanksgiving tomorrow, but I'll be back on Friday. And I have the weekend off."

Her face was flushed, but the smile remained.

"Okay." He said.

"Take care of yourself in the meantime." Emily said, fixing him with a serious expression. He realized she meant to sound as sincere and severe as a drill sergeant but her light, musical voice and rounded features would likely never be able to instill him with the desired effect. Still, her attempt was...amusing.

"I will." He said.

"Promise?" Emily pressed.

It was small and so quick Emily was half convinced she had imagined it, but she was almost certain she saw a ghost of a smile pass over his face.

"Promise." He said.


	7. A Face in The Crowd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That new trailer got me all hyped! I hope you enjoy! Thank you for reading so far and I would love, love, love a review!

Chapter 7

A Face In The Crowd

* * *

Bucky wasn't sure he had ever known what Christmas was. Or at least, if he did, the memories were buried so deep down he couldn't access them properly. Whatever it was, Emily knew. And she loved it. He was content to follow her around and experience it through her eyes.

She certainly wasn't the only one excited for the upcoming holiday. Bucky watched with curious eyes as the city undertook a strange metamorphosis. Decorations of red, green and gold seemed to appear overnight, adorning shop windows, street lights and even passersby. As snowfall became more frequent, so did traveling groups of singers (carolers, Emily called them) and old men dressed in red and white, ringing bells. Small, twinkling lights were hung from almost every building, bringing a warm glow to the streets. He was tempted to ask questions, but he didn't want to draw any sympathy or unwanted attention to himself.

For several days he had been tagging along with her whenever she was off work. He had accompanied her to several department stores to hunt for gifts. At times, it was mind numbing but he was always rewarded with a fresh meal.

On this day, Emily had asked for assistance and when he arrived at the bakery, she was waiting for him with a piping warm cup of coffee and another ham and cheese croissant.

"Thanks for coming," She smiled, a thick plume of smoke slipping from her mouth.

The hour was still early and the cold morning air was bracing. With only three layers of clothing available to him, he could feel the chill through to his bones. But it was a feeling he had grown used to after decades of night missions. Emily, dressed in her navy coat and a matching set of thick-knit scarlet gloves, scarf & cap, seemed better prepared for the chilly weather.

He gratefully accepted the coffee and took a long drink, relishing as the heat slid down her throat and spread through his veins.

"It's better to go in the morning." She said, sipping her own coffee. The warmth of it brought a slight flush to her cheeks and nose. "Since they always deliver in the morning. And most people are too lazy to be up this early on a Sunday. That or they're at brunch."

Bucky didn't know what brunch was and didn't bother to ask. Instead, he had another question.

"Where are we going?" He asked, already having had forgotten.

"It's just a couple blocks down," She said. He fell into step a fraction behind Emily, letting her lead the way. "The walk should get our blood circulating."

He nodded, biting off a large portion of the croissant.

"Did you sleep well?" She asked, innocently.

He frowned. "No."

It had been weeks, months possibly, since he had experience a good night's sleep. His head was too full and the air too cold for him to feel truly rested each morning he woke. He had a feeling that, if he tried hard enough, he could punch right through the walls of his apartment as easily as he could a single block of wood. At the very least, he had been spared from remembering whatever nightmares haunted him. There were only flashes and feelings, nothing too concrete. It seemed a small grace, but he knew better than to disparage it.

Emily offered him a thin smile, her dark brows knitting together.

 _I shouldn't've asked._ She lamented. _But...at least he's being honest with me._

It troubled her that she couldn't always tell when he was lying. He only did it to spare her worries and on some occasions not even he could hide his exhaustion or trauma. But he seemed to loathe the idea of talking through his nightmares and terrors, even after she had indirectly offered time and again.

"Only ten days til Christmas." She said, beaming in hopes to buoy his spirits.

He just nodded.

 _If he doesn't have any living family,"_ Emily thought. _Maybe he hasn't celebrated in a while. Or maybe he just celebrated alone._

The thought made her heart swell and ache, even if only for a moment.

"Are you going to get a tree?" She asked tentatively.

 _A tree_. He thought. Yes, that's what they were doing. For some reason.

"I- don't think so," He said, still unsure of it's purpose.

"Well then it's doubly nice of you to help me." Emily said, resisting the urge to reach out and hug him. "Normally my brother helps, but he's already gone back to the midwest to spend the holiday with his in-laws. But I made more of that stew you liked so much, when we're done you can come over."

At first he had tried to resist her near constant desire to care for him. Every attempt she made he met with a cool indifference. A simple tactic, but it came at a struggle. He resented opening up to her. The regret had felt instant, but over a few days he let go of his discomfort.

It was the food. And the cocoa. The coffee and the warmth of her apartment. The fragrance she wore, something called milk and honey. The vanilla and sugary smells that clung to her after she finished a shift. They were all memories of a past that still seemed foreign to him. Memories that, when pieced together, became something so comforting and calm that it was almost impossible for him to believe he had once belonged to such a world.

"Here we are," Emily said, brightly.

They had arrived at a small lot. Once empty, it had been filled with fragrant pines; each one varying in size and bulk. A small banner sign had been draped across the chain link fence that kept the lot enclosed. _**Christmas Trees.**_

"Well," Emily said, her blue eyes sparkling. "Let's see what we can find."

He followed her as she weaved between the narrow aisles. The lush, green branches brushed against his arms, tickling his skin.

"I think I found one!" Emily called, after several minutes of searching.

After a sharp right turn her found her, grasping onto a tree just two inches taller than she was. She was smiling wide, a proud hunter with a fresh kill.

"Whatdya think?" She asked.

He shrugged, unsure of how to judge it.

"It ...looks like the others." He said, lamely.

Emily wasn't deterred. "Maybe to an amateur eye. But see…"

She did her best to spin the tree with one hand. "The branches are really thick and it's exactly the right size. Plus that long branch at the top looks perfect for my star and…"

She prattled on, unaware that he had no idea what she was talking about. He almost grinned, amused by her obvious excitement. And all over a little, prickly tree.

"Where'd the man go?" Emily said, rising up to her toes in an attempt to locate the salesman. "Can you spot him?"

Bucky took a look around, realizing that she would never be able to see over the tops of the trees. He caught sight of him and stretched his arm in the air to get his attention.

"He's coming," He said.

"Great," Emily said, "If you wouldn't mind-"

Bucky dropped to a crouch and grasped the base of the tree with his artificial hand. He hoisted it up as easily as he would a single log and cradled the lighter side in his other arm.

Emily watched him with wide eyes.

"Um…Do you-I mean," She breathed. "It's not too heavy?"

Bucky just shook his head, confused by the question. The salesman appeared next to her fixing him with a similar look of astonishment.

"That'll be $60." He said, assessing the size of the tree.

Emily handed him several bills and with a nod they were off.

"You-uh, don't need me to help you?" Emily asked, as they exited the lot.

"No," Bucky said, carrying the tree with relative ease. Aside from the poking branches, he didn't see why she was so concerned.

"Thank you, Bucky." Emily said. A chill ran up his spine at the sound of his name.

The walk to her apartment took some time, but he didn't tire. It had been a while, at least a couple months, since he had needed to rely on his strength.

When they arrived, he waited at the foot of the stairs while Emily searched her bag for her keys. He kept a firm grip on the tree with his metal appendage. No doubt the smell of it would cling to him for a while. It wasn't strong enough to stir any concrete memories, but a feeling deep down had been stirred. He knew the scent of the tree, even though he had no memory of ever seeing one before. The spiny touch of the branches was familiar as well. He couldn't fight the sensation of shrinking and an image of colored lights wrapped around the green branches was floating in and out of his head.

He aimlessly scanned the street as she climbed the stairs to open the door. He could see others shuffling along the curb weighed down by trees, bags and boxes. It was comforting somehow, to know that he was participating in something so normal. Before coming to Brooklyn, he had always felt out of place and lived in a state of near constant fear that he would be noticed for what he was. A soldier. A killer. A wolf in civilians clothing. But the more time he spent with Emily the more he felt like-

His moment of reflection was shattered; like lighting through a tree. Something in the crowd had caught his eye. A face. One he knew instantly. Because it was a threat. He reeled backwards and lost his grip on the tree. He ducked down quickly to pick it up and glanced at Emily. She hadn't noticed. He set his sights back on the sidewalk and scanned the crowds, searching in vain. It had come and gone so quickly. Perhaps too quickly. Had he simply imagined it? Was it nothing more than a trick of his damaged mind? The pale skin, smooth as marble. The grey eyes, glinting brightly. Gray eyes that saw him. Not as what he was but what he had been. His grip on the tree's base grew so tight he was close to snapping it.

"Bucky?" Emily called. She stood inside the door, holding it open so he could shuffle through.

He jerked forward at the sound of her voice, instantly regretting that he had been truthful with her. She knew his name. Hell, she had just called out to him so that anyone standing close could hear. He cringed so violently he almost lost his footing. He had inadvertently endangered her. And opened himself up to a new level of vulnerability.

"Are you okay?" She asked, her brow furrowing.

"Yes," He said gruffly and charged up the stairs. He moved quickly and watched carefully to make sure that Emily shut the door behind her. As they climbed the stairs he tried desperately to match a name to the face; anything to better prepare him should he see it again. But all he could grasp was the stony eyes, the blanched skin and a ruby red smile as cold and as hard as an icicle.

Getting the tree through the hall and into her living room proved even more difficult. His good arm was growing numb. He fought against the instinct that told him to drop the tree and run, run out and away. To find the face and destroy it. To stamp out the threat. To survive.

He stood in the hallway, watching Emily fuss over the tree. He had been foolish. So foolish to think himself safe and hidden. He stepped to the window and touched the thin fabric of the curtain. He pulled it back only slightly and looked out onto the street. But his angle was all wrong. All he could clearly make out was the tops of the heads that rushed by.

"Oh no."

Bucky turned back, his heart in his throat. _What now?!_ Emily was looking down at her phone.

"Chloe's sick." She said, "They need someone to take her shift."

 _No._ Bucky thought. _She's out there. That woman._

Woman! It was a woman. He only just realized. But...her name. What was _her name_?

"...I'll be back, okay?" Emily said as she pulled her hat onto her head again.

Every cell in every one of his veins was crying out for her to stay. And yet, there was no sound coming out of him. Not even a whisper. She couldn't go. She just couldn't.

"The stew is the fridge, but you can warm it up yourself." Emily continued. "I'm not sure when I'll get off, but it shouldn't be too long."

 _Don't go._ He pleaded in his head. _It's not safe._

He couldn't stop her. His bones were leaden; his shoes felt as though they had been swallowed up by her carpet.

 _Don't go._ He thought, unable to will the words from his mouth. _Don't-_

"See you soon!" She beamed, before disappearing out the door.

* * *

As the hours ticked by and the sky turned to black, Bucky grew more and more anxious. What if it wasn't a trick of his damaged mind? What if the face he had seen was real?

_And I just let her go out there._

As another wave of adrenaline charged through his veins, he rose to his feet and returned to the window. The streets were a sea of shadows, any light dimmed by heavy sheets of silent snowfall. It was difficult, even for him, to make out the figures that hurried by. He looked at his watch.

9:37 pm.

The bakery closed at 9pm on Sundays.

 _She should be back by now._ He thought, stomach swirling. _I should've gone with her._

Steeled by guilt, he turned towards the door and made it to the hall before fear gobbled up his insides.

The face flashed before him again. This time, it was accompanied by screams. His own.

Whoever it was. That woman had been there. In...wherever he had been.

The room began to spin. He couldn't go back. To that place. To that way of living. No it wasn't even living. It wasn't even an existence.

He stumbled backwards and fell onto the couch. His eyes flitted between the window, the door and his watch.

9:42 now.

He had waited for her once before. She had returned at 9:18pm. Eighteen minutes.

 _Go._ He thought. _Go look for her._

He looked towards the door again. His stomach dropped and dropped and dropped. She could be waiting out there. That woman. Waiting with armed men to take him in. His real arm jerked.

_I can't. I can't go back to that place._

Bested by terror, he looked down at the low table in front of him. He reached for the remote and pressed the red button at the top.

"We're all excited around here," came a voice from the screen. "My brother just got the congressional medal of honor."

Bucky looked up. He knew that voice.

"Between you and me Mr. Carter," it continued in a bashful drawl. "We're broke."

The images on the screen were devoid of color. He leaned forward, transfixed. He recognized the people on the screen. Actors. Ones he had seen before. In a dark room, nestled in a velvet seat. The memory enveloped him like a fog. The screen was much larger in his memory. The faces on it nearly ten times the size. Gray giants, Steve had called them. Steve. Sitting by his side was a scrawny little boy, just as engrossed as he was.

As the memory faded, so did the panic. He relaxed into the cushions of the couch.

A familiar sound reached his ears. The turning of a lock.

Sure enough, Emily appeared from the hallway, covered in a layer of snow.

"Oh, don't get up!" She said, her voice a bit hoarse but cheery. "It's a mess out there! Took me forever to slog through it."

She removed her coat and let it fall onto the arm of the love seat she stood by. As she added her scarf, gloves and bag to the pile, brushing flecks of snow off her bangs. She looked tired. Exhausted. Dark circles were forming under her eyes and her hair looked frazzled. No doubt it had been busy at the bakery.

"Did you eat?" She asked, suppressing a yawn.

"I-yes." He said, succumbing finally to relief. She was home. Safe.

"Well, then." She said. "How about some hot chocolate?"

"I can-"

"Nope, you sit." She said, tugging at the elastic band that held her hair up. "I'll just be a minute."

She disappeared into the kitchen for a moment and then hurried past him into her bedroom. Unsure of what to do, Bucky turned his attention back to the screen.

He couldn't remember the names of the characters, but they seemed upset.

"George what's wrong?" asked the woman on the screen. She must've been a mother. Somehow he knew that.

 _Because….she looks like my mother._ He couldn't explain the thought. He couldn't even picture his mother's face, but that woman on the screen came close.

The kettle began to whistle in the kitchen, pulling him back to reality again.

"I got it!" Emily called. She bounded from the bedroom and into the kitchen before he could protest. Now she was clothed in flannel striped pajamas and a beige knit sweater that looked to be two sizes too large. She had pulled her hair into a chunky braid and she had replaced her contacts with her thick framed glasses.

"What are you watching?" She asked after handing him a mug and settling down on the couch.

"I'm not sure." He said.

"It's A Wonderful Life," Emily said, recognizing it immediately. She took a long sip from her mug. "I loathed this movie when I was younger. Everyone's so terrible to him. It just broke my heart. And this is the worst part too."

Bucky's mind began to stray again. Even though Emily was home he could still sense the woman's presence. It was no vision, no trick of his mind. He had seen her; he was certain- absolutely certain - he had seen that woman. He had known that woman. And she was dangerous. Deadly.

 _I need to track her._ Said a voice that wasn't quite his. _Terminate her. Now._

His whole body flinched. Instinct screaming at him to go. Now. Find her. End her.

 _No..._ He thought. _No more killing. Not here._

He glanced at Emily, who was now curled up on the couch a mere inch or two away from him. He could feel the warmth of her blanket radiating from her and covering him.

_If she knew...who I was. What I am capable of._

He shivered violently.

"Are you still cold?" Emily asked, sensing his discomfort. He cursed himself for being so obvious. So unable to stay hidden.

He shook his head.

"You don't have to pretend." Emily said, shifting even closer and grabbing a fistful of the blanket with her free hand. "Here."

She flung it towards him and a portion of the blanket fell into his lap.

"You don't need to-"

"Nonsense." Emily said, "It's a big blanket."

Bucky wasn't sure how to respond. So he simply nodded and accepted her offer. Emily grinned and returned her attention to the movie. Bucky did as well.

"What happened?" He asked.

Emily looked aghast. "Haven't you seen this?"

"I-I think so," He said. "But it was a long time ago."

"Oh," Emily said. "Well. that's Geroge Bailey or...Jimmy Stewart's character now. He's upset because his uncle misplaced a lot of money and it's going to ruin his business. And his whole life he's missed out. On traveling the world. On going to college…"

"Why?"

"Well, he had the opportunities." Emily continued. "But he always turned them down for the sake of other people for his friends, his family, his town."

Bucky tried to focus on Emily's explanation, but his thoughts were still far away.

If it was that woman, if he did in fact know her...and if he did kill her. Then they would come. Quickly. Forces would descend on the burgh. It would be a strategic error. He had made a similar one in Prague and it had almost cost him his freedom. He would not make the same mistake again.

The music swelled dramatically, capturing his attention once more.

The man, Jimmy or George or whatever Emily said, stumbled through the snow and onto a bridge.

Bucky felt his veins go hot. It was a familiar scene. Not because he had watched it before. But because...he had once stood on a bridge. Just like that one, not too long ago. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, recognizing plainly the look in the man's eyes as he contemplated the raging waves below. But before he could jump, another man took the dive.

Fixated, Bucky watched as the angel accompanied George into a distorted future.

"Strange isn't it?" The angel said, "Each man's life touches so many other lives."

Bucky winced. How many live had he touched? Not touched...but taken. Destroyed. He knew them all. He could recall each one. It was that barrage of faces, blood and frightened eyes that had drawn him to the bridge. He could practically feel the sea winds against his cheeks. And yet...he hadn't jumped. Why hadn't he jumped?

"Help me, Clarence, please." The man cried. "Get me back. I want to live again. I want to live again. I want to live again. Please god, let me live again."

The words washed over him like a storm. George Bailey's voice echoed in his head. _I want to live again. Live again._

Is that what he wanted? Truly? Not to uncover his past or understand the person he was. Those goals seemed less important when he was with Emily. He wanted something else now. Something simpler. Something real.

He looked back to the television. Things had changed. George Bailey was smiling, singing even. Surrounded by people cheering and smiling along with him. He picked up a book and inside there was note scrawled across the page.

_**Remember no man is a failure who has friends.** _

He looked to his left, realizing that Emily was uncharacteristically quiet. She was curled over the arm of the couch, her blanket wrapped around her shoulders, fast asleep. He could see her back rise and fall gently with each deep breath she took.

 _Is that was she is?_ He thought. _A friend?_

As the credits began to roll, Bucky reach out and turned the television off. The words still whirled around in his head. _I want to live again._

He stood up slowly so as not to wake Emily.

 _You can't just leave her on the couch._ He thought.

Carefully, he lifted her into his arms, blanket and all, and carried her into her room. She shifted just slightly turning into him and nestling her head against his shoulder. He slipped into her bedroom, illuminated solely by a crack of light that slid in from the living room. Gingerly, he lowered her onto the bed, making sure that he head aligned with one of her plump white pillows. He drew her arms out from under her as gently as he could manage.

"Mmm," She mumbled. "No…"

He froze, worried he had overstepped. She reached up, and grabbed at his shirt. She spoke in a whisper, so soft he strained to hear her.

"Stay." She murmured. "Stay here."

Her eyes were still shut and the words were so quiet he had to strain to hear them. He wasn't entirely convinced she was still awake. He looked down at the bed. Her sheets were thick and clean. At least six pillows were spread out against the headboard. He thought of his own bed. The hole-riddled sleeping bag that lay on top it. He thought of the swinging amber light on his ceiling, the rattling roar of the subway as it rumbled by his window. He thought of George Bailey, the black stormy waters, and the bridge he would have to pass on his way home.

Spurred on by temptation, sleep and terror at the thought of what he might do, Bucky lowered himself down to the bed. Emily didn't move at first, stirring uncertainty. But, as his head sunk into one of her large, fluffy pillows she rolled onto her side and wrapped one arm over his chest.

No sooner had his full weight plunged into the mattress, did Bucky's eyes slip shut and he was lost to sleep.

* * *

Outside, a storm was brewing. Flurries of snow fell from the sky like powdered sugar from a sieve. People unlucky enough to be on the streets squinted against the silent downpour, their steps growing faster, eager to get to their homes.

All but one.

Across the street, a woman stood under the lone light of a street lamp. Her long hair, smooth and ashy blonde, was dusted in white. She was clothed entirely in black. Her lips, painted a severe shade of rose red, had curved into a small, but triumphant smirk. Her eyes, gray and piercing, were locked onto the apartment across the street. Three floors up.

She slipped one slim, gloved hand into her pocket and pulled out a small phone. After pressing a single button, she lifted the phone to her ear. Her eyes glinted against the strings of lights wrapped around the base of the street lamp.

"Lydia репортаж," She said, her voice deep and slick like melting chocolate. "я нашел его."


End file.
